
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

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Siielf -:g. 6 ^ N 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 







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<frt % Same Smts. 


WHITE SATIN AND HOME- 
SPUN. By Katrina Trask, 
author of “Under King Con- 
stantine, “ Sonnets and Lyrics,” 
etc. 

Oblong. Polished Buckram, 

75 cents. 

Touches the true phase of life repre- 
sented by White Satin and Homespun, but 
its motif is not the sociological question of 
the prelent day, as its title might imply, but 
the more universal one of the recreating 
power of love. 

SIMON RYAN, THE PETER- 
ITE. By Rev. Augustus Jes- 
SOPP, D.D., author of “ Trials of 
a Country Parson,” etc. 

Oblong. Polished Buckram, 

75 cents. 

“A very clever story of character and 
incident.” 


ANSON D.F. RANDOLPH AND 
COMPANY, 91 and 93 Fifth 
Avenue, New York. 


NO PLACE FOR 


REPENTANCE 



ELLEN F. PINSENT 

A uthor of 

“ Jenny's Case ” and “ Children of this World 





NEW YORK 

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY 

qi AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE 


By ANSON 






Copyright, 1896, 

F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY 


Schicksal und Eigenschuld 



NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

About a mile and a half of level 
road, glistening with white chalk, leads 
from Cowsthorpe Station to the town. 
Perhaps nowhere else in England 
would the one street with its few 
houses be dignified with that name, for 
indeed it is but a village. But as all 
things are comparative, in the marshes 
of Lincolnshire Cowsthorpe is a place 
of some importance. Yet no spirit of 
business stirs its inhabitants, who are 
agriculturists turned shopkeepers and 
apparently expect the sun now as be- 
fore to do the greater part of their 
work for them. The goods are piled 
carelessly in the windows of the shops 
— there are but four or five — and 
the fine chalk-dust accumulates over 
everything, and is never wiped away. 
A pile of faded prints stands outside 

( 7 ) 


8 


NO PLACE FOR 


the linen draper’s door, and a ready- 
made suit of corduroys hangs sway- 
ing in the breeze. In one or two 
doorways the owners may probably 
be seen staring stolidly before them, 
at long intervals making short re- 
marks to one another. Sleepiness 
prevails and is infectious; some half- 
dozen vehicles may pass during the 
day, the doctor’s dog-cart, the old Vi- 
car in his pony carriage, or now and 
then a farm-wagon. But apparently 
there is nothing to disturb, nothing to 
interest the inhabitants. They slouch 
about the one street all day long, or 
sit nodding their heads in their back 
parlors, while over all this stillness 
the great silent church looks down on 
them from its nest among the elm 
trees. Within its walls nothing wakes 
the echoes during the week but the 
striking of the deep-toned clock which 
scores each hour of idleness to the in- 
different town below. Only the rooks 
are full of business, and the life in the 
elm trees forms a marked contrast to 
that of the dull little street. 

Once only during the time that I 


REPENTANCE. 


9 


knew Cowsthorpe did an event occur 
which interfered for a few months 
with the prevailing quiet. More than 
one of its inhabitants were stirred to 
unexpected depths. The excitement 
passed, and on the surface all is as 
before. But nothing takes place with- 
out leaving some effect, and there are 
two or three people whose lives will 
always be both worse and better for 
its happening. Striking, as it did, a 
note of the great tragedy of human 
life, it may be that it is worth record- 
ing. 

The first intimation of any change 
came in this way. It was Sunday; 
the congregation had just dispersed, 
and several groups were standing 
about the churchyard ready for gos- 
sip. This is as much part of the rit- 
ual of the morning service as saying 
the Creed and the Ten Command- 
ments. It is the moment when affairs 
of great importance are discussed, the 
price of corn, the health of pigs, and 
the chances of the weather. But on 
that day these topics, important 
though they are to most of the con- 


10 


NO PLACE FOR 


gregation, were thrown into the back- 
ground by a startling and wholly un- 
expected piece of news that had been 
announced in church by the old 
Vicar 

He had told them that owing to 
failing health and advancing years he 
had decided that he must have a cu- 
rate to help him, and had prayed to 
God to guide him in his choice. 
Could anything have been more dis- 
concerting for Cowsthorpe, for had 
not all its folk been baptized, married 
and buried by old Mr. Nugent for the 
last thirty years ? Had he not, with a 
few rare exceptions, preached to them 
each Sunday during that time ? 
Every one knew what was to be ex- 
pected from him both in doctrine and 
charity, but are we not all suspicious 
of the unknown ? 

Bell was the centre of a group 
which stood about the churchyard 
gate, and more than one pair of eyes 
glanced at him inquiringly. He 
spoke but little, and perhaps in con- 
sequence his speech was regarded as 
oracular. He was foreman on the 


REPEN TANCE. 


II 


largest farm in the parish and his 
master, Mr. Foster, had been known 
more than once to defer to him in ag- 
ricultural matters. Hence he was al- 
ternately despised and respected by 
the rest of the farm hands, but which- 
ever attitude of mind was paramount 
for the moment his opinion was al- 
ways asked on questions of import- 
ance. To-day he seemed disinclined 
to pronounce judgment. The subject 
was new to him and his mind worked 
slowly, so taking advantage of his 
great height he looked over the ques- 
tioning faces towards the porch of the 
church. It was his wife who broke 
the silence — 

“So that’s why Maister Nugent was 
wantin’ to ha’ a look round wer par- 
lour an’ traapsin’ up i’ the chaamber 
for. He looked a bit slaape an’ says, 
‘Mrs. Bell,’ he says, ‘could yer man- 
age a lodger % ’ he says. ‘ I doubt not,’ 
I says, for I didn’t rightly know what 
he was drivin’ at, an’ I’ve plenty o’ 
work wi’out havin’ to clean up a’ter no 
great howerboys, an’ I reckoned it 
might be one o’ them theer tiresome 


12 


NO PLACE FOR 


tykes at the malt-kiln as he were 
thinkin’ about. ‘ Naay,’ he says, ‘ but a 
nice quiet gentleman as ’ull paay reg’- 
lar.’ ‘A bit o' reg’lar mooney coomin’ 
in is worth a deal/ I says, and then he 
gits up an’ ‘ Good-daay to yer, Mrs. 
Bell/ he says, i I’ll let yer know/ ” 

This seemed to bring the matter 
home to more than one of them; the 
advantage or disadvantage of a lodger 
was something tangible. Bell looked 
round and spoke, though doubtfully. 

“Dunno as I want a parson alius in 
and out. I can’t see what we want wi’ 
anoother. Maister Nugent we’re ewst 
to, he knows us an’ we know him, an’ 
he ain’t alius botherin’ in an’ out o’ 
folk’s houses, peerin’ to see what 
we’ve got cookin’ i’ the pot. He 
cooms when he’s wanted and bides at 
home till he’s asked. Them theer 
young curaates doesn’t know their 
plaace. I heared tell o’ one on ’em 
ower at Gainsby as worrited the folks 
till they threatened to duck him i’ the 
hurse pond, he got ’em so mad wi’ his 
interferin’.” 

“I reckon he’ll be a’ter you, Bell,” 


REPENTANCE . 


13 

laughed one of the men, “mebbe he’ll 
belong to the Blew Ribbon Army.” 

“Now doan’t yer goa vexin’ my 
maan wi’ any o’ your nonsense, Jim 
Tear,” said Mrs. Bell, “your wife ’ud 
be a deal mower coomfortable if yer 
kep’ clear o’ the public, so theer.” 

“Maayblins Maister Nugent wants 
him to lig along o’ yow r so as he maay 
keep his eye o’ Bell,” retorted Jim. 
“Miss Hildred was a-saayin’ to my 
ode laady as Maister Nugent says to 
her, ‘ Miss Hildred,’ he says, ‘ Sheep- 
bank is my greatest trial,’ he says, 
‘it’s all drink an’ dissent.’” 

“That’s just a bit o’ Miss Hildred’s 
babblement,” said Mrs. Bell scorn- 
fully, “whoiver heard Maister Nu- 
gent talk o’ that how, he never says 
nowt uncivil. I doan’t know as I iver 
knew such a storyin’ woman. My 
word ! them ode maids ! ” 

She looked towards a group of la- 
dies, one of whom was talking ve- 
hemently, and the others, following 
the direction of her glance, paused to 
listen. 

“It really is high time something 


14 


NO PLACE FOR 


was done, and I’m glad the Vicar has 
made up his mind. I do trust he will 
make a wise choice. We want a man 
of sound church principles, especially 
if he is to live at Sheepbank ; that 
hamlet is a disgrace to the parish.” 

She was interrupted by a merry 
laugh, and “ Thank you, Miss Hilt 
dred, I’m sorry you have such a bad 
opinion of us,” from Beatrice Foster 
as she ran off to join her father. 

“ Just hark to the ode mawps,” said 
Mrs. Bell. “ Miss Beetrice ain’t no 
paatience wi’ her, law, what a great 
fine lass she do grow to be sewer; but 
’owiver Mrs. Minton can stan’ theer 
listenin’ to such cat blab, I can’t 
think.” 

“Yis,” rejoined another woman 
with a laugh, “ we know as you sent 
her off wi’ a flea in her ear last time 
she caam to your house.” 

“She wean’t iver set foot o’ the in- 
side o’ my door no mower, she wean’t; 
the very idee o’ coomin’ tellin’ .such 
lies o’ a body’s bairns; saayin’ as 
she’d seen Jackie stealin’ o’ her black 
currants. Why the lad can’t abear 


REPENTANCE. 


15 


’em, he’d goa wi’out his din- 
ner sooner than touch ’em. i It 
ain’t trew, Miss Hildred,’ I says. 
‘ Ain’t trew,’ she says, i do yer mean 
to accuse me o’ tellin’ a lie ? ’ she 
says. ‘ I accuse no one,’ I says, ‘ but it 
ain’t trew, an’ I’ll uphode it,’ then she 
gits in a great raage an’ calls me an’ 
John an’ the childer soomthink dread- 
ful, says she’ll ha’ the law o’ Jackie — 
‘I saw Jackie i’ my garden as theer’s 
One above,’ she ses; then I gits up an’ 
shows her the door an’, ‘ One above, 
Miss Hildred,’ I says, * maablin’s you’d 
best look out or theer’s one below as 
’ull catch hode on yow if yer tell such 
lies.’” 

“Coom hode yer noise,” growled 
Bell, jogging one shoulder towards 
the vestry door, out of which two men 
had just appeared and were coming 
towards the gate. Both were consid- 
erably past the prime of life, but the 
Doctor was still brisk and young in 
looks and manners, while the Vicar’s 
bent shoulders and white hair showed 
that on him the years had begun to 
weigh heavily. One glance at him, as 


1 6 NO PLACE FOR 

he reached the gate and paused to say 
a word of greeting to all, showed him 
a gentleman of the old school. H^re 
was none of the official cheerfulness of 
the young priest to his flock, but an 
honest meeting of men of like inter- 
ests and passions. Not a man among 
them but regarded him with real affec- 
tion, not a rough face that did not 
grow more gentle and lose some of its 
littleness as he passed by. For this 
gentleman was always expecting no- 
bleness and truth, and it was given to 
him to find them where others sought 
in vain. 

They watched him cross the road 
and enter the Vicarage garden with 
the Doctor, and a sense of misgiving 
at the idea of a stranger pretending 
to fill even the smallest corner of his 
place pervaded them. Bell expressed 
the opinion of all when he said, shak- 
ing his head slowly, 

“ I reckon no good 'ull coom o’ it.” 

“ Maister Nugent he lets us aloan,” 
said Jim; “he doan't show a man the 
door 'cos he's been known to ha' a 


REPENTANCE. 


17 


drop ower much once an’ again. Now 
young fellers as doan’t know nowt — ” 

“Theer ain’t anoother maan like 
Maister Nugent i’ thease here parts,” 
mused Bell, “he knows a deal. They 
saay i’ Haxby as he’s mower knowl- 
edge o’ law than all them oother mag- 
estraates put togither, an’ he gi’s a 
man justice.” . 

“Well, coom along home, do now,” 
said his wife, “or the victuals ’ull be 
done to a rag. I reckon we’re to ha’ 
chaanges for better or worse, but 
Maister Nugent ’ull soon git shut o’ 
any young maan as doan’t behave his- 
self. I reckon it ’ull be a moonth’s 
warnin’ or a moonth’s waages wi’ cu- 
raates saam as oother folks.” 


CHAPTER II. 


At a little distance from Cows- 
thorpe Station, an old barn stands on 
the right-hand side of the road. It is 
here that Dicky the blacksmith plies 
his trade, and on most week-days the 
noise of his hammer may be heard 
from afar. Immediately opposite his 
forge is the stile over which lies the 
field -path to Sheepbank, a hamlet con- 
sisting almost entirely of Mr. Foster’s 
farm-house, and his laborers’ cot- 
tages. 

On Saturday evening after work is 
over, one or two men may generally be 
seen coming up this path to join the 
group gathered round Dicky’s forge, 
for the blacksmith, beside his regular 
calling, has constituted himself the 
village barber. Shaving always takes 
place outside the barn as the inside is 
too dark, and Dicky is bound in hon- 
or not to get drunk until after this 
(t8) 


REPENTANCE. 


19 


service to the community. It is said 
that the number of men he has shaved 
can be estimated from his condition 
the next morning, as it is the invaria- 
ble custom to move on afterwards to 
the Golden Cross, where Dicky takes 
his payment in strong liquor. 

Waiting in turn for the chair and 
the razor affords an excellent oppor- 
tunity for gossip, but it is not often 
the men's voices show so much anima- 
tion as was the case on a certain Sat- 
urday some six weeks after the new 
curate, Mr. Harold Champion, had ar- 
rived in Cowsthorpe. Of course he 
was the subject of conversation and 
also of great difference of opinion. 
Dicky had been holding forth at some 
length. 

“ What I saay is,” he continued, turn- 
ing to address the bystanders while 
Bell took his place in the chair. “ What 
I saay is, an' wi’out meanin’ no dis- 
respect to Maister Nugent, this here 
young maan he preaches the gospel, 
an' mower nor that, I’ll saay it’s not 
often as yer can listen to the Word 
put so plain and trew i’ church or 


20 


NO PLACE FOP 


chapel. I’m a chapel man mysen, 
havin’ led the singin’ theer for nigh 
on twenty years, but I do saay as I 
reckon Maister Champion to be one in 
a hundred an’ I doan’t mind taakin’ a 
turn at church now an’ again for to 
hear him.” 

Grunts expressive both of assent 
and dissent came from more than one 
of his listeners who were lying on the 
grass at the roadside. 

“ He fraames well,” said Bell, re- 
leasing himself from Dicky’s grasp on 
his shoulder to clear his throat and 
spit, “ an’ he can talk, niver knew such 
a maan for toongue, you can’t saay no 
to him. But he’s quiet i’ the house.” 

“Such a lot o’ fuss as all you men 
maakes yaupin’ about him,” said the 
station master who was sitting astride 
on the handle of a plough which Dicky 
had been mending. “ He’s very well, 
I dessay, but I can’t stan’ sich a sight 
o’ catwab ; I’d a deal sooner hear the 
ode gentleman. Maister Nugent’s the 
sort for me, that he is, he’s a fine ode 
maan.” 

“ Eh ! we know as you’re ower lapped 


REPENTANCE. 


21 


up i’ Maister Nugent since he gaave 
you that theer bottle o’ whisky. That 
taale’s well knowed, but it was afore 
your time, Kitty.” 

The individual addressed was a fair 
little man with blue eyes. Perhaps it 
was his appearance which was account- 
able for the name by which he always 
went, certainly no one ever spoke to 
him by another, and his patronymic 
remained a mystery. He had appeared 
with a tribe of navvies when the new 
railway to the coast was being made, 
and when it was completed and the 
others moved on, Kitty remained be- 
hind and got “ catch-work” in the 
coal-yard. 

“ Let’s ha’ the taale, Maister Low- 
ery,” he asked, and the station master 
launched forth at once in his high- 
pitched voice. 

“Theer ain’t no particular taale — 
Maister Nugent an’ me’s alwaays been 
friends, iver since I caam to this here 
staation. I knowed as he were the 
right sort first time as I iver sarved him 
wi’ a ticket. I ain’t blew ribbon but 
I never drink ’cept now and again a 


22 


NO PLACE FOR 


mug o’ beer, but I got drunk once 
along o’ this how. Theer was a little 
matter o’ business as I wanted Maister 
Nugent to sattle for me. Would yer 
trust Maister Champion wi’ your busi- 
ness, Dicky ? Not you, for all his fine 
language, he’s as ignorant — ” 

“ Git on wi’ yer taale, maan, an’ let 
the. young un be.” 

“Well, as I was saayin’ the trains 
were a bit awk’ard an’ I couldn’t leave 
afore eight. Maister Nugent was get- 
tin’ his dinner. ‘Show him in here,’ 
he says to the gal, an’ I stan’s by the 
door not knowin’ just how to begin, 
when up he gits, shaakes hands wi’ 
me, an’ ‘ Sit you down here,’ he says, 
‘ we’re just finishin’ dessert. Gi’ Mr. 
Lowery a plaate,’ he says. An’ theer 
was a great ode round glass on my 
plaate half full o’ water, an’ I gits that 
hot yer might o’ lighted a match o’ 
my faace, for I wasn’t sewer if I should 
drink the water or what. But Maister 
Nugent he teams me out a glass o’ 
red wine, an’ I drunk that. Well we 
sits theer talkin’, clear forgettin’ the 
time, when presently the ode gentle- 


REPENTANCE. 


23 

man says, ‘ Lowery/ he says, 4 do yer 
like whisky ? I should be fine an' 
pleased for yer to taaste a sup o’ mine 
as my broother sends me from Ireland,’ 
he says. An’ nothink would content 
the ode gentleman but sendin’ the gal 
to git a bottle an’ we both has a glass. 
My word ! it was a’ter I got out as I 
began to feel queer. When I gits 
home an’ into the kitchen it caam into 
me head as mebbe I was drunk, an’ I 
says to myself, 4 If I’m sober I can 
wind up the clock,’ so I reaches the 
key an’ tries to git it i’ the hole, but 
I couldn’t maake it goa nohow. An’ 
then I gits it off the shelf i’ me lap, 
but it wean’t a bit a good, an I sits 
theer gittin’ that hot, an’ sweatin’ wi’ 
fear that Mrs. Lowery should waake 
up an’ find me, till at last I creaps up 
to bed.” 

“An’ your missus?” asked Kitty, 
after the chuckles of the others had 
subsided. 

“ She was sound asleap an’ niver 
knew. I’ the marnin’ she says, ‘I 
dunno whativer’s coom to the clock,’ 
she says. 4 She wean’t goa, she stopped 


24 


NO PLACE FOR 


at ten o’clock last night an’ I can’t 
think what’s got the key,’ she says. 
An’ that very daay down cooms 
Maister Nugent i’ his cart an’ calls me 
out, an ’ i Lowery,’ he says, feelin’ i’ 
the pocket o’ his big coat, ‘ I reckoned 
mebbe as yer’d like to ha’ a bottle o’ 
the whisky,’ he says. Poor ode gentle- 
man, I was fine an’ pleased wi’ it, an’ 
theer it stan’s i’ the cupboard but I 
wean’t ha’ the kerk out. Eh ! theer’ll 
niver be anoother like Maister Nugent, 
an yer’ll coom to know it i’ the end.” 

“ Well,” said Kitty, turning to Bell, 
“ your missus seems quite set o’ Maister 
Champion. Theer ain’t no doubt,” 
he continued, for Bell was submitting 
to the razor and could not reply, “that 
he knows how to git round the women. 
Mrs. Tear now, she’s maazin’ throng 
wi’ him an’ sets a deal o’ store by what 
he saays.” 

“An’ why?” asked Dicky. “’Cos 
he’s kep’ her husband awaay from 
liquor for three weaks, an’ by that, he 
ain’t been here to be shaaved thease 
three Saturdays. If he caam he couldn’t 
help droppin’ in down yonder. Noa, 


REPENTANCE. 25 

Jim’s done wi’ me, he’s gotten a beard 
as big as a great ode goat by this/' 

“ It ain’t on’y the women, I reckon,” 
said another man. “Did yer hear tell 
o’ his goin’ into the malt kiln t’oother 
daay an’ ketchin’ two o’ the laads 
callin’ each oother an’ usin’ language 
soomthin* fearful ? I reckon as they’d 
ha’ been fetchin’ each oother great 
sallups in anoother minute when up 
he cooms an’ let’s ’em both have it, 
straight.” 

“An’ I’m glad o’ that,” said Kitty. 
“ I dunno as I’ve cause to be partic’lar 
for I’ve heard a deal of $wearin’ an’ 
goin’ on ower railway jobs, but o’ all 
I’ve iver chanched on, them theer lads 
at the kiln is the foulest toongued.” 

“ Well I’m tellin’ you,” resumed the 
other, “ Maister Champion let ’em ha’ 
it hot, an’ afore they knew what they 
was doin’ an’ had still gotten theer 
fists doubled up, he’d jumped up o’ 
the steps o’ the kiln, an’ ‘ Listen to me, 
lads,’ he says, an’ off he goes about 
fightin’ an’ swearin’, an’ out cooms all 
the men an’ stan’s round listenin’. 
‘ Off wi’ your hats,’ he says, ‘ an’ let’s 


26 


NO PLACE FOR 


praay.’ An’ praay they all does, soom 
on ’em for the first time since they 
were childer, I reckon.” 

“ It’s a woonder to me as they’ll 
stan’ his interferin’ wi’ ’em,” said Bell, 
“ but theer it is, he’s such a way wi’ 
him, yer can’t help but listen.” 

“ I reckon,” said Dicky, stepping 
back and surveying Bell’s face to see 
if his work was finished, “as Cows- 
thorpe Church is seein’ mower o’ Cows- 
thorpe folk than it’s iver done afore, 
leastwaays i’ my time.” 

“ You’ll not be so fond o’ him, 
Richard,” said Kitty with a chuckle, 
“ if he spoils your traade. Theer’s Jim 
given’ yer the sack already.” 

“ I ain’t so sewer o’ that,” said Bell, 
who was now released, and engaged 
in swilling his face in a basin of water 
which stood on the window-ledge of 
the forge. “ Maayblin’s yer doan’t 
know as Jim’s been awaay the last 
daay or two — staayin’ i’ Haxby for 
chaange o’ air,” he concluded signifi- 
cantly. 

“ That cooms o’ goin’ teetotal,” said 
Dicky, wiping his razor. “ He can’t 


REPENTANCE. 


27 


keep it up, an’ then the first bout he 
has he can't carry no mower nor a 
baabe, the first glass knocks him silly. ” 

“ Look yonder,” said Lowery, nod- 
ding in the direction of the station. 

A man was hurrying up the road 
whom they all recognized to be Jim. 
His chin was covered with black stub- 
ble and his cheeks were flushed with 
excitement. He shouted to them 
from a distance. 

“ Hurraay, I’ve gotten here i' time, 
I was afraid you’d ha' shut up shop — 
coom, Dicky, get me shut o’ this beard 
o' mine, an’ I’ll feel a sight mower 
coomfortable. Maake haaste, maan, 
do, an' you shall ha' three pennorth 
o' the best an’ goa on till yer’ve got- 
ten slaaked.” 

“ An' wheer maay yow ha' been 
tankin' a holidaay wi'out the maister’s 
leave ? ” asked Bell. “ Who do you 
suppose as had to do your work 
thease last few daays ? ” 

“ My word ! ” said Jim, as he sat 
down panting on the chair, “ yer’U 
speak a word to the maister for me, 
wean’t yer, John ? Yer see I had them 


28 


NO PLACE FOR 


theer hogs to drive to Haxby Market, 
an’ the wind was that code an' my 
inside so bad I was forced to ha’ 
summut, clear forced I was. I hadn’t 
touched a drop o’ owt for three weaks, 
an’ that’s trew, yer maay ask my mis- 
sus, an’ then I nobbut had three penn- 
orth o’ gin. You ask the gal i’ the 
bar, nobbut tjiree pennorth an’ that’s 
gospil, she’ll tell yer. But law it 
seamed to take hode on me fearful, 
for when I got outside up cooms a 
bobby, an’ claps hode on me an’ 
taakes me right off to the lock-up. 
Law, how I suffered wi’ the code, 
they took awaay me necktie, an’ on’y 
give me one small blaanket an’ a 
great hard board to lie on, it’s clear 
shaameful an’ me wi’ rumpts that bad, 
an’ theer I had to staay till to-daay 
when Maister Nugent caam an’ sat o’ 

m „ * j 

me. 

“ Maister Nugent did, did he?” 
said Dicky, “ well I reckon he’d be 
fine an’ pleased to see your great, 
ugly mug afore him. Why doan’t yer 
coom reg’lar, maan, do yer reckon I’m 
goin’ to blunt my razors fetchin’ off 


REPENTANCE . 


2 9 


this here ? ” Dicky lathered him 
roughly. “ I reckon if Maister Cham- 
pion had lit o’ yer, he’d a sung yer a 
different song.” 

44 Law, I was pleased to see Maister 
Nugent,” said Jim, shaking himself 
free to go on with his story, while 
Dicky fell to sharpening the razor. 
44 4 Oh, Jim,’ he says, 4 I’m real sorry 
to see you ’ere,’ he says. 4 Yer can’t 
be no sorrier nor I am, Maister Nu- 
gent,’ I says. An’ when the bobbies 
had had theer saay, 4 1 shall be obliged 
to fine yer, Jim,’ he says. 4 What 
must be must be,’ I says, an’ it took 
ivery penny I had i’ me pocket, an’ I 
woondered whativer I should do to 
git back here wi’out a bit o’ dinner or 
owt to put strength into me. An’ I 
stan’s outside waitin’, for I reckoned 
as Maister Nugent ’ud coom out soon, 
for a bobby was hoding his horse out 
i’ the road. An’ presently up he 
cooms lookin’ that slaape wi’ one eye 
o’ the bobby outside the gaate, an’ 
4 ’ere, Jim,’ he says, an’ I looked i’ my 
hand an’ theer was half a crown. An’ 
I waits till he’s driven awaay, an’ 


30 


NO PLACE FOR 


then I goes up to the bobby an’ ‘look 
here what Maister Nugent’s given 
me/ I says, an’ my word, it maade the 
bobby look slaape an’ all. An’ then 
I goes an’ has three pennorth mower 
gin, an’ anoother three I’ll ha’ wi’ 
you, Dicky, so soon as you’ve gotten 
my faace scraaped clean.” 

“That yer wean’t, Jim Tear,” said 
Bell emphatically. “ Yer great maul- 
kin, do yer reckon as Maister Nugent 
gaave yer that mooney to wear i’ 
maakin’ a gin barrel o’ yer belly ? 
Yer ought to be ashaamed o’ yourself. 
You’ll goa straight home, that’s wheer 
yer’ll goa, an’ I shall coom along wi’ 
yer. Dicky ’ull ha’ to take his paay- 
ment i’ coppers this time, an’ here’s 
mine.” 

Jim put his hand up as a sign that 
he wished to speak, but Dicky kept 
firm hold on him and plied the razor 
ruthlessly, only saying — 

“ Hode on wi’ yer, or yer’ll git 
mower nor your bargained for.” 

The rest were silent, and Bell stood 
glaring at Jim. It was characteristic 
of him that though he had little scru- 


REPENTANCE. 


31 


pie in getting drunk himself, he hated 
to see others in the same condition, 
and as he stood there he pondered 
ways and means of getting Jim home. 
He was extremely doubtful of his own 
powers for all the determination of 
his voice and manner. All eyes were 
watching him, waiting for the time 
when Jim could speak, so that all 
were surprised by a noise behind 
them, and looking round they found 
that Mr. Champion had come up 
the field-path from Sheepbank and 
jumped over the stile into the road. 

“ Hullo,” he said, looking at the 
group with interest. a You’re busy as 
usual, Dicky. I believe this is the 
best trade of the two.” 

Bell turned and nodded to him, 
and Dicky grinned and went on with 
his work. The dogged look on Bell’s 
face vanished, for he knew that his 
self-imposed task would now be 
shared. He took out his pipe and 
filled it as he leaned over the open 
door of the forge listening to Mr. 
Champion’s voice, though he paid no 
attention to his words. The others 


32 NO PEA CE FOR REPENTANCE. 

answered, laughed, and appeared 
interested, but Bell only smoked and 
gazed absently into the distance. 

Down the road the landlord had 
been standing on the steps of the 
Golden Cross watching the group 
round the forge, ready to welcome 
the men when shaving time was over. 
When the black figure appeared in 
their midst, he shrugged his shoulders 
and went in muttering — 

“ I might just as well shut up shop. 
I’m blest if it ain't the third Saturday 
as that damned parson has coom 
spoilin’ traade. Here, wheer’s that 
gal ; git me a drink, double sharp, 
yer’ll ha’ no one else to sarve to- 
night, so maake haste wi’ mine. If 
this here goes on, we shall ha' to 
stock tracts an’ ginger ale.” 


CHAPTER III. 


Who has not felt the intoxicating 
effect of a brisk walk in the strong 
sunshine, when a cool sea breeze keeps 
body and mind vigorous ? Harold 
Champion expanded his chest, taking 
deep breaths and striding forward 
filled with a half reckless happiness. 

Never had he felt more boyish or 
more confident in himself. Never be- 
fore had he cast away from him so 
completely the dreadful memory of 
certain dark passages in his life, which 
had sent him weak in body and with 
shattered nerves to seek the quiet of a 
country curacy. London, and all that 
had happened to him there, seemed far 
away, relegated to the shadowy region 
of a dead and forgotten past. His re- 
turning health, the success of his work 
in Cowsthorpe, the subtle influence of 
the bright spring weather, all combined 
to fill him with hope, to set his imagin- 

( 33 ) 


34 


NO PLACE FOR 


ation to work weaving day dreams of 
new joys, indefinite and intangible, 
yet powerful enough to make his heart 
beat and his pulses quicken with de- 
sire. 

Presently he paused, his attention 
arrested by the queer desolate land- 
scape before him. He had left the 
road and was attempting a short cut 
to a cottage that he could see about 
half a mile in front of him, where he 
had heard that Mrs. Tear lay ill with 
ague. Towards the east he saw the 
yellow sandbanks, and between him 
and them perfectly flat land divided 
into vast fields, not by hedges, but by 
drains, which were distinguishable 
only by a few pollard willows or stunt- 
ed thorns growing along their edges. 
Inland in the far distance, where the 
country became undulating, one or 
two windmills stood out against the 
sky, marking the first rise of the 
wolds. To the right was the tall 
church tower and the few houses of 
CoWsthorpe. 

But the sense of sadness so often 
experienced by strangers in this coun- 


REPENTANCE. 


35 


try had no power to affect him to-day, 
and he listened to a lark above his 
head and moved on again, thinking of 
the verses, 

“Oh to be in England now that April's there.” 

Suddenly he was stopped abruptly 
in the straight line that he had been 
taking. He had crossed two fields 
and jumped a couple of small drains 
when he was confronted by one of 
such a size that he feared the leap 
would be impossible. 

Bell had remarked to him when he 
started that he would “ find it gainer 
to go up o’ the raamper,” but he had 
disregarded the advice, which, indeed, 
he had hardly understood though now 
the meaning was borne in upon him 
disagreeably. 

He looked all round but could not 
see the least sign of a bridge or of the 
road. To go back was both ignomini- 
ous and a serious loss of time. He 
walked sharply along the drain to the 
right looking for a narrower place, 
but the irritating thing seemed to be 
mathematically exact in its breadth, 
and he paused just opposite a group 


NO PLACE FOR 


36 

of willows to measure it with his eye. 
He was so absorbed that he did not 
see a basket lying on the opposite 
bank, and half concealed by the wil- 
lows a face with bright eyes watching 
him. He only saw that the water was 
thick with rushes and he went back 
determined to make a spring. 

“Don’t jump, don’t jump,” cried a 
voice, and he had just time to pull 
himself up, perfectly bewildered at the 
sudden apparition. 

For there on the opposite bank 
stood a beautiful girl, laughing and 
looking at him. Her large straw hat 
had fallen off as she sprang up and 
the wind tossed her soft hair about 
her head at will. He knew her for 
Beatrice Foster, and yet for a moment 
no greeting passed his lips, so differ- 
ent did she appear out here in the 
strong sunshine, her slight figure 
bending to the wind, from the demure 
and bonneted maiden who sat so still 
before him in church. Suddenly she 
stooped and picked up her hat, losing 
some of her unconsciousness as she 
saw the eager admiration in his eyes. 


REPENTANCE. 


37 


“You see,” she said, coming to the 
edge of the drain, “ the bottom is soft, 
and you’d have got into a terrible 
mess. I don’t think you could have 
cleared it. Leslie got in here one day, 
and he took the prize for long jump 
at Rugby.” 

“Of course, I should have got in,” 
he said, raising his hat. “ But it’s 
very stupid to have to go all the way 
back. Is there any way nearer? I 
want to go to that cottage.” 

She laughed with childish delight 
at his difficulty. 

“You don’t understand the marsh 
country. Wait a minute, can you use 
a pole ? ” 

She went back to the willows where 
she had been resting, and returned 
with a long jumping pole. 

“I generally bring it when I come 
after rushes,” she explaimed, “ the fin- 
est ones always grow out of reach, 
besides it helps me over the drains. 
Now I’ll throw it across to you.” 

He caught it and felt its strength. 
“Your weight and mine are rather 
different,” he said. 


38 NO PLACE FOR 

Then for the first time she looked 
at him critically, comparing him with 
other men, judging him by those she 
loved best, her father and her brother 
Leslie. Before she had only seen him 
in a surplice and had surrounded him 
with a halo of mystery and respect 
due to his position. His words and 
enthusiasm had stirred her more than 
anything she had yet heard. But as 
she looked at him now, she judged 
him from a different standpoint ; to- 
day she was his equal, his superior, 
for she was helping him out of a diffi- 
culty. Could he use a pole ? She 
watched. A slight color had risen to 
his cheeks, he feared that he should 
fail while she was looking on, but 
when he met her eyes he forgot every- 
thing but the exquisite charm of her 
face, and he was filled with one desire, 
to stand near her. 

The next moment he had jumped 
and stood by her triumphant. 

“Very good,” she said. 

“It would have been impossible 
without your pole, thank you so much 
for saving me a ducking.” 


REPENTANCE . 


39 


“The bottom is all soft mud,” she 
said, plunging the pole into the drain, 
and bringing it up to show him. “This 
is the largest drain about here, and just 
below r Cowsthorpe it joins another, 
and they empty themselves into the 
Wash.” 

He did not answer her, and she 
glanced at him shyly, turning to pick 
up her basket. He was racking his 
brains for an excuse to prolong the in- 
terview but could find none. 

“ That’s your nearest way now,” she 
said, pointing out the direction, “ you 
will find Mrs. Tear better, I’ve just 
been to see her.” 

“Then perhaps she won’t care for 
another visitor.” 

“Oh yes, I’m sure she will.” 

He turned reluctantly to go, and 
stopped, for she had seated herself on 
the bank. 

“Shall I find you here when I come 
back ? ” 

She looked up surprised, and then 
returned cheerfully, 

“ Oh yes, I had better wait for 
you’ll want the pole again.” 


40 


NO PLACE FOR 


Twenty minutes later he had re- 
turned. Mrs. Tear had been a little 
disappointed with his visit for he had 
listened absently to her tale of woe, 
and had not so much as offered to 
read or pray. If she could have fol- 
lowed him and seen him lying on the 
grass by Beatrice, she would have 
understood. 

In the distance the old church clock 
chimed the quarters, yet neither ob- 
served how time passed. They were 
talking, strangely interested in each 
other's remarks, however trivial, for 
to them each word and gesture 
seemed fraught with hidden meaning. 
And Harold Champion, who for the 
last few weeks had been rousing even 
the apathetic marsh dwellers by his 
fiery enthusiasm, forgot for a moment 
as he watched Beatrice and listened 
to her voice, that this world is but a 
passage to the world to come. Often 
as he had insisted on the emptiness of 
human joy, yet now the present satis- 
fied him and he forgot the demands of 
eternity. The height of his desire 
was that she should sit on there and 


REPENTANCE. 


41 


not move, and he grew silent with 
excess of longing. It was then that 
she became conscious of a feeling of 
constraint and rose to her feet. She 
must go, her father would be waiting 
for her in Cowsthorpe. She held out 
her hand, and as he touched it each 
felt a new sensation, something which 
sent the warm blood racing through 
every vein and left a feeling akin to 
faintness. Around her, as she walked 
back with a languor quite unusual to 
her, all nature was bursting with new 
life. The spirit of the spring was 
stirring everywhere, nothing was 
still, all things seemed panting ea- 
gerly for a fuller life, a more complete 
joy. And her nature, now for the 
first time fully in sympathy with the 
great world, was turning with gentle 
trustfulness to love. 


CHAPTER IV. 


About half way between the town 
and station, and in sight of both, Dr. 
Minton had built himself a comfortable 
little house. In order to command as 
distant a view as possible he had 
made a pleasant drawing-room up- 
stairs, and it was here one Saturday 
afternoon in May that a little group 
of people were gathered about the 
tea-table. 

Windows opened to their widest 
helped to counteract the lassitude of 
the first warm weather. The Vicar 
was lying back in an arm-chair watch- 
ing Beatrice Foster as she chatted 
quietly with his wife. His old face ex- 
pressed interest and affection. Bea- 
trice was motherless, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Nugent having no children of 
their own, lavished on the young girl 
much of the love that had never been 
claimed by nearer ties. 

(42) 


NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. 43 

The Doctor was talking to Miss 
Hildred, half amused, half angry with 
that lady's complaints and criticisms 
of things in general. 

“ I asked Mr. Champion to come," 
said Mrs. Minton, introducing what 
she knew to be an unfailing topic of 
conversation, “ but he said he was 
always busy on Saturday." 

“I don't think he will be much of 
an acquisition socially," observed Miss 
Hildred, “ whatever may be thought 
of his work in the parish." 

“ There can't be two opinions about 
that,” said the Doctor, “you like to see 
a full church, I suppose." 

“ That depends on the motive which 
draws people, Doctor. Itching ears, 
you know. Of course if he conducts 
the service exactly in the manner of a 
chapel prayer meeting, it’s no wonder 
he attracts dissenters, but I don’t ad- 
mire him for descending to their 
level." 

“ I don’t care a snap of the finger 
about his doctrine, high or low," the 
Doctor rejoined not over politely, 
“ but when a man is so thoroughly in 


44 


NO PLACE FOR 


earnest as he is, and when he succeeds 
in emptying the public houses and 
filling the church, I think he deserves 
a little thanks and respect. How he 
does it is nothing to me.” 

“ He's a perfect wonder,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Minton with enthusiasm, “ he’s 
brought old Dicky the blacksmith to 
church, where he’s never been seen for 
twenty years, and he’s almost con- 
verted the dissenting minister him- 
self, and at any rate rendered his ex- 
istence useless by emptying the 
chapels.” 

“ Like likes like, I suppose,” sneered 
Miss Hildred. 

“ What lies at the root of his influ- 
ence over the men I can’t say,” said 
the Doctor, turning and addressing 
the Vicar, “but it’s undoubtedly 
strong. It may be merely that he’s 
something new, and yet as a rule 
Lindsay folk hate changes. Of course 
he’s a fine speaker, but — ” 

“ Perhaps when you’ve listened to 
one man most of your life,” said Mr. 
Nugent, “a change is wholesome. 
There may be something in the Wes- 


REPENTANCE. 


45 


leyan system. They are too much 
accustomed to my way of putting 
things ; and then, of course, rightly 
or wrongly, out of church I leave 
them very much to themselves.” 

He turned his head towards the 
window and looked out thoughtfully, 
and the Doctor felt half sorry that he 
had spoken. To praise the curate’s 
work seemed like casting a reflection 
on his old friend, and he said, 

“ After all, it remains to be proved 
if it isn’t all a flash in the pan. Can the 
man keep it up, — this enthusiasm ?” 

“ Yes, I think so,” rejoined the Vi- 
car; “at any rate during his best 
working years. If one stops to think 
one wonders that we are not all en- 
thusiasts. We have cause enough, 
God knows ! But old age takes the 
sharp edge out of life, and years ago 
— well, all one’s traditions were 
against it.” He laughed to himself, 
adding, “ When I was young, I should 
have feared ridicule — considered it 
‘ outre ’to have been seen preaching 
in the open air. Yes, class prejudices 
interfere.” 


NO PLACE FOR 


46 

“ Of course/’ said Miss Hildred, “ he 
has no feeling of that kind.” 

“ And for that very reason he is 
more in sympathy with the people.” 

“Then you don’t consider him a 
gentleman ? ” 

A shade of annoyance passed over 
the old man’s face as he answered 
slowly. 

“ On the contrary, I most certainly 
consider him a gentleman.” 

“ But his parentage ! ” persisted 
Miss Hildred. “ I think there is no 
doubt that he is one of the furniture 
people, you know that big shop in 
Bond Street.” 

“That detestable word ‘ gentle- 
man,’ ” Beatrice broke in wrathfully, 
“ when shall we ever get rid of it ? oh, 
what harm it does! He is a man of 
refined feelings, a University man, and 
has good manner^ what more do you 
want ? ” 

“Much more, if you please,” said 
Miss Hildred, “ precisely that name- 
less quality that gentleman alone in- 
dicates.” 

“Tm certainly old - fashioned 


REPENTANCE. 


47 


enough to believe that there is some- 
thing in breeding,” mused the Vicar. 
“ Something — but perhaps it is not of 
the first importance. That nameless 
quality you speak of may affect us, I 
expect it is, if anything, a bar to full 
sympathy with the poor. However, 
I for one have not found it lacking in 
Champion, but whether or no, he has 
found his way to the hearts of these 
men/’ 

“ If it hadn’t been that some one 
spread that gossip about the shop in 
Bond Street, I don’t believe any one 
would have dreamed of such a thing,” 
said Beatrice. 

“ Of course, that is not the chief 
trouble with regard to him,” Miss 
Hildred said, lowering her voice and 
taking a seat close to Mrs. Minton. 
“What really grieves me so much is 
his ignorance. I assure you last Sun- 
day morning it was terrible, quite ter- 
rible, believing as I do, to kneel there 
and watch the Sacred Elements so 
mishandled. Mrs. Minton, he does 
not know how to officiate, and a< 
a member of the E. C. U., it would b< 


48 


NO PLACE FOR 


wrong for me to receive the Sacra- 
ment again from his hands.” 

“ What on earth does he do wrong ?” 
Mrs. Minton exclaimed in bewilder- 
ment, for she was entirely ignorant of 
Ritual, and when Miss Hildred began 
a detailed explanation her attention 
wandered and she listened to her hus- 
band who was saying, 

“ They may like his preaching, cer- 
tainly he has the gift of the gab, but 
when they are in real trouble they 
will not go to him. They run after 
him just now, but you wait, he hasn’t 
the knowledge or experience to help 
them so effectively as you can, and 
they know it.” 

The Vicar looked up amused. 

“Really, Doctor, I believe you’re 
jealous for me, and you make out such 
a poor case, they will fall back on me 
for 6 things temporal.’ Well, Bea- 
trice, we shall have to get your father 
to talk to the Doctor. He can’t speak 
too highly of him. You see if he 
makes Bell a sober man, he’ll do Mr. 
Foster a good turn into the bargain.” 

“And poor Mrs. Bell,” said Bea- 


REPENTANCE. 


49 

trice, “very few people know how 
hard her life is.” 

“ Hark! what's that ? ” said the Doc- 
tor. 

The talking ceased, and all looked 
towards the open window. Some- 
thing in the nature of a cheer came to 
them from the direction of the Rail- 
way Tavern. 

Beatrice ran to the window and 
leaned out. In the distance she could 
see the sign of the Golden Cross 
swaying backwards and forwards in 
the evening breeze. Before the door, 
mounted on a cart, a black figure was 
evidently addressing a knot of labor- 
ers. Listening attentively she could 
hear, now that the occupants of the 
room behind her were still, an impas- 
sioned voice she knew well. The Doc- 
tor and the others crowded round the 
windows to look and listen too. Then 
Beatrice saw the black figure jump 
from the cart, one of the laborers 
went to the horse's head and began to 
lead it, while the others followed be- 
hind. 

A strange excitement mastered the 


50 NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. 

girl as she watched the procession 
moving up the road. As they ap- 
proached she recognized that they 
were mostly Sheepbank men, Bell and 
Jim Tear, and others. The cool breeze 
fanned her hot cheeks and bore up to 
the window the sound of men’s voices 
singing, and she could distinguish the 
clear tones of their leader as he threw 
back his head and sang with all his 
soul, 

“ Onward, Christian Soldiers, 

Onward as to war 
With the Cross of Jesus 
Going on before.” 


CHAPTER V. 


Mrs. Bell stood at the gate of the 
farmyard looking up the road, an anx- 
ious expression on her worn face. Be- 
hind her the two children were chas- 
ing each other round and round the 
stacks, filling the air with their shrill 
cries. 

“Be still this minute, can't yer,” 
shouted Mrs. Bell over her shoulder, 
“I couldn't hear not if theerwere fifty 
haay wagons up o' the raamper 
whilst you're screechin' like that, let 
aloan one empty muck cart. Be still, 
Liza, an’coom you here, Jackie, or I’ll 
warm your jacket.” 

The cries ceased, and presently the 
two children appeared from behind 
the barn and came down to the gate, 
where they sought to ease their en- 
forced silence by making hideous 
faces at each other through the bars. 

(5i) 


52 


NO PLACE FOR 


“ I can’t hear nowt,” said Mrs. Bell, 
more to herself than to the children. 
“ Three Saturdays he’s brought him 
home, but I reckon nothink short o’ a 
miracle ’ull git him to-daay. Hark! 
What’s that ? Well ! I’m blest ! ” 

The rumble of cart wheels could be 
faintly heard in the distance, and Mrs. 
Bell went out into the middle of the 
road, her face glowing with excite- 
ment. 

“ Yis, thee’re a-coomin’, theer’s two, 
theer’s three, I reckon theer’s fower on 
’em. Yis, an’ that theer great tall ’un 
’i froont wi’ the parson ’ull be Bell. 
Here, you coom back, yer great idle 
bairns, an’ git a cup o’ tea ready for 
your father. Doan’t stan’ gawmin’ at 
me, yer silly gomerils. Your father’s 
coomin’ back, I tell yer.” 

The children scampered off and Mrs. 
Bell followed them to the house, shout- 
ing all the time. 

“ Here, you Liza, warm the pot, an’ 
you Jackie maake soom toast. Father 
he looves a bit o’ hot toast to his tea, 
he do. Maake haaste, theer’s good 
bairns, an’ I’ll set the cloth. Father 


REPENTANCE. 


S3 

'ull be a minute seein' to the hurse. 
Law, I niver beleaved he'd coom, or 
I'd a' set it ready." 

“ What's the ewse o' maakin’ tea," 
said Liza, “father niver taakes tea 
when he's i' liquor, an’ it's Satur- 
daay.” 

“ Hode yer noise, Liza, yer reckon 
yer know iverythink ! How can you 
tell what he taakes an’ what he doan’t 
taake, when I sends yer off to bed 
reg'lar ivery Saturdaay for to git yer 
out o' his waay ? Yer father's as sober 
as I am or he wouldn't be coomin' 
home at this time. Now if you’re 
good an' doant tease yer shall sit up 
a bit to-night. Theer — ain't I got it 
set out pretty, a bit o' fresh chease an' 
all. Set the pot o’ the hob, Liza, to 
draw a bit." 

Just as the arrangements were com- 
pleted, Bell’s huge figure darkened 
the door, and he looked in sheepishly. 
The excitement of the march home 
had passed, and deep down in his 
heart he had an uneasy feeling that he 
had made a fool of himself. But his 
wife was mistress of the situation ; 


54 


NO PLACE FOR 


after one sharp glance she knew which 
way to take him. 

“Ow, it’s you, is it? Now doan’t 
coom clattin’ in wi’ your great howery 
boots. Git ’em off out theer, do now. 
Liza, taake your father a cheer out to 
the door. Whativer’s the good o’ my 
cleanin’ up for Sunday if you’re to 
coom clattin’ it all up again wi’ muck ? 
What wi’ you an’ the bairns an’ Mais- 
ter Champion, I niver git set down 
from marnin’ till night. Theer — tea’s 
ready but it weant hurt to draw a’ bit 
if yer want to gi’ your faace a swill at 
the pump.” 

Bell retired again for this purpose. 
Whatever had been unusual and dis- 
quieting in the afternoon’s experience, 
here, at any rate, was a return to the 
normal which set him at ease again, 
and he came in to tea cheerfully. 

Sitting in his arm chair completely 
tired out, the occupant of the parlor 
heard much talk and laughter from 
the kitchen. If things were arranged 
as they ought to be according to any 
decent ethical principle, the noise of 
that cheerful tea party should have 


REPENTANCE . 55 

constituted the Rev. Harold Cham- 
pion’s reward ; but as he sat there 
staring at the tea which he did not 
touch, Mrs. Bell’s shrill voice became 
agony to him. 

Since he had passed up the road un- 
der Beatrice’s view the whole man had 
undergone a transformation. Even 
his material frame appeared to have 
shrunk and the fire had died out of 
his eyes. Now that he sat there with 
every muscle relaxed, the most con- 
spicuous features of his face were the 
weak chin and the undecided, soft lips 
which worked every now and then 
nervously. 

For along time he stared hopelessly 
before him — brooding — irritated by 
the noise, and yet not listening to it, 
until at last, when all had grown still, 
he recovered energy enough to rouse 
himself and stretch out his hand for a 
Bible, which was lying on a little table 
by his chair. But before his hand 
reached it there was a gentle knock, 
and Mrs. Bell entered. Self-absorbed 
as he was he could not help noticing 
her beaming face. 


NO PLACE FOR 


56 

“Bell's asleap,” she said in a loud 
whisper. “ Law, sir, do yer think as his 
heart’s touched at last? I wish I could 
beleave as he’ll keep steady. Law, 
how happy I do feal to be sewer. I’ve 
not had Bell home on paay daay, not 
sober, since Liza was born. It was 
when I was laid aside wi’ her that he 
took to drink so fearful. An’ look, 
he’s gaave me it all” — she displayed a 
handful of silver — “all ’cept sixpence 
for baccy. The Lord bless you, sir, 
an’ I do thaank yer kindly, I’m sewer.” 

“ Thank God, not me, Mrs. Bell, it’s 
His doing.” 

“ Mebbe,” she returned doubtfully, 
“ but I must thaank you an’ all. Law,” 
she continued as she began to clear 
away the tea things, “ whativer shall I 
do if he has anoother bout ? He’ll be 
just mad, fit to end us if he falls back 
a’ter this. Yer doan’t know, sir, how 
different he is when he’s i’ liquor. I’m 
scar’d to death ivery Saturday as he’ll 
do one o’ the bairns a mischief ; it’s 
not but what Bell’s a kind maan, it’s 
on’y the drink as maakes him kind o’ 
craazed. See you here, sir, you’d niver 


REPENTANCE . 


57 


beleave this, wi'out seein' it, not o’ 
Bell — ” She came near to him pull- 
ing up her sleeve and disclosing an 
ugly looking scar above the elbow. 
“That's what Bell did last time he 
had a bad bout, ’cos I stood between 
him an' Liza. He'll be the death o' 
me soomday, I reckon, specially if he 
falls back now. We must keep him 
from it, Maister Champion, we must, 
I tell 'ee." 

Harold Champion shuddered as he 
looked at the scar and then into the 
woman's worn face, and listened to 
her vehemence. A wave of despair 
caught him and held him silent. He 
realized all that it meant to this wo- 
man, brave as she was, and his heart 
failed. She came a step nearer and 
put her hand on his arm. 

“Maister Champion, sir, can yer do 
it, can yer keep him from the drink ? " 

Her insistence drove him to an- 
swer — 

“ All things are possible to the Al- 
mighty, Mrs. Bell. I can do nothing 
unless it is His will." 

She fell back disappointed, and for 


NO PLACE FOR 


58 

a few minutes continued putting the 
tea things together, then she turned 
to him again. 

“ Well, I ain’t no scollard, an’ I 
doant understan’ it. Mebbe the Lord 
could save him, but will He ? That’s 
what I’d like to know ; He niver in- 
terfered wi’ Bell not afore you caam, 
an’ I’d given up hopin’ as he’d iver 
keep from drink, but now as I see he 
can, why I’m just craazed to keep him 
from it. If any one can, it’s you, 
Maister Champion.” 

“ You’re wrong, you’re quite wrong,” 
he answered with a strange agitation, 
“ to cure an habitual drunkard is quite 
beyond any human power, only God 
can do it if He sees fit. You don’t 
know, Mrs. Bell, how it takes posses- 
sion of a man, no one can understand 
the awful craving for it, no human 
strength can resist it, only God can 
help and He ” — he seemed to pull him- 
self up with an effort — “ we must 
pray, Mrs. Bell, we must pray without 
ceasing, and we must not revile the 
Almighty if He seems to neglect our 
prayers. He knows what is best for 


REPENTANCE. 


59 

us better than we do. He is watching 
over your husband.” 

Mrs. Bell did not answer. She folded 
up the cloth and then stood with her 
hands on the table leaning over and 
looking across at him. The sight of 
her anxious face was misery to Har- 
old Champion. 

“ He has not touched alcohol for a 
month,” he said. 

“ That’s trew, an’ I reckon theer’s a 
deal in bein’ ewst to a thing. If we 
can ony keep him a bit longer, he’ll 
git ewst to do wi’out it. We must 
divert him o’ Saturdaays, an’ it’s you 
as can do that, it’s wi’ divertin’ his 
mind as yer’ve maade this start. 
When he’s a singin’ o’ your hymns, an’ 
a shoutin’, he ain’t no time to think o’ 
the drink. That’s how you’ll do it, 
sir, an’ mebbe when he’s tired o’ the 
hymns an’ the preachin’ yer’ll find 
soomthink else to divert him, mebbe 
yer will.” 

She put the table-cloth away, and 
carrying out the tray of tea things, 
she left him alone. 

He bowed his head over his clasped 
hands and prayed. 


6o 


NO PLACE FOR 


“ Oh, my God, my God, grant that 
I may be the means in Thy hands of 
saving this man, grant that he may 
conquer his temptation, that so this 
woman may see that Thou only art 
God, Thou only art the Lord. And 
grant, oh Most Merciful Father, that 
I may mortify my body and keep it 
in subjection, lest by any means when 
I have preached to others I myself 
should be a castaway.” 

Then a groan escaped him as he lay 
back in his chair with closed eyes. 
But presently rousing himself, he be- 
gan to read the Bible, and to think 
about the morrow’s sermon. He chose 
his text and made a few pencil notes, 
and then fell to dreaming vaguely. 
He could never do more beforehand ; 
it was only when he had the rows of 
upturned faces before him, lined with 
human toil, that the rush of impetuous 
words came, stirring him with a strange 
excitement, and penetrating down to 
the hearts of the imperturbable race 
he had come to live among. 

When this was done he rose and 
went out into the quiet night. A cold 


REPENTANCE. 6 1 

breeze was coming in from the sea, 
but his head was hot and he wel- 
comed it gladly. He went down to 
the gate and looked across the road. 
In the distance he could see a light 
twinklingin Mrs. Tear’s window and he 
stood still, delighting in the vivid re- 
collections it called up, Beatrice in the 
white gown and large hat, her fair hair 
waving in t*h@ wind, in the foreground 
the rushes stirring in the water ; the 
picture was complete. During the 
last week he had been with her con- 
stantly, and at each meeting his first 
impressions deepened. He stood there 
a long while thinking, and when he 
turned to go in the mood of hopeless- 
ness and despair had vanished. He 
stepped firmly and held himself erect. 

Alone in the world he must have 
succumbed, the fight was too hard, 
the temptation too bitter, but in the 
extremity of his need God had sent 
aid ; on the brink of destruction God’s 
angel held out her hand. A new life 
opened for him, for Beatrice, if she 
loved him, he could face and conquer 
all. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The weather was exceptionally good 
that year, and the hot summer passed 
uneventfully at Cowsthorpe. The 
farmers were in good spirits, for 
there was promise of a fuller harvest 
than had been reaped for years. By 
the last Saturday in September, Mr. 
Foster had only one field of wheat 
left to be cleared. It was a large 
one, however, and as the weather had 
shown signs of breaking, he was mak- 
ing a special exertion to get it in 
before nightfall. The intense heat 
seemed almost unnatural, and the 
weather-wise prophesied a storm. All 
the week the men had worked on by 
moonlight, and it needed but one final 
effort to clear the field and afterwards 
enjoy their well-earned day of rest. 

The wheat had been standing in 
stook for some days, and the women, 
being no longer wanted for making 
bands and tying, had taken to glean- 
(62) 


NO PLA CE FOR REPENTANCE. 63 

ing the fields already cleared. Mrs. 
Bell was going through her house- 
hold duties with the greatest possible 
rapidity in order to make an early 
start with Liza and Jackie, who were 
already standing on the doorstep with 
their great calico gleaning bags tied 
round them. 

“Now then, Liza,” shouted Mrs. 
Bell from the kitchen where she was 
peeling potatoes, “ doan’t stan' gaw- 
min' out theer, yer great idle thing. 
Go you, clean up a’ter Maister Champ- 
ion an’ dust the parlor. My word, it’s 
one body's work to be alwaays a’ter 
you. Gleanin' time an all, when yer 
know we reckon to ha' a new pair o' 
boots each out o' the gleanin’ mooney, 
an' plenty o' work to git 'em. Here, 
Jackie, you go sarve the pig wi' thease 
here taaty skins.” 

Some minutes later Mrs. Bell came 
out of the cottage, and locking the 
door behind her she started with the 
4W0 children for the fields. Jackie 
carried a basket with pieces of bread 
and dripping, and Liza had taken 
charge of the jug of cold tea. 


6 4 


NO PLACE FOR 


On their way they met one huge 
wagon coming towards the yard. 
Jim Tear was leading the horses, 
and his face looked red and sullen. 
Mrs. Bell shook her head sadly, 
muttering : 

“ It’s cruel work harvestin’, but my 
word for it, Jim Tear ain’t stuck to 
the code tea. If on’y we can git ower 
to-daay — but I reckon it ’ull be hard 
work. Mind what you’re doin’, Jackie, 
yer tiresome tyke, let your sister be, 
you’re maakin’ her slap all the drink 
i’ the floor.” 

They turned into an empty field 
and found Mrs. Tear sitting under the 
hedge waiting for them. The woman 
looked absolutely cowed and dis- 
spirited. She had bad health and 
was a victim to the curse of the marsh 
country, acute neuralgia. Mrs. Bell 
spoke first. 

“ Marnin’, Mrs. Tear. You’re nob- 
but lookin’ baadly. Have yer gotten 
the tic again ? ” 

“ Naay thaank yer, leastwaays, no 
mower nor usual. Naay, I’m just bet 
out, I am. I got no rest last night wi’ 


REPENTANCE. 6$ 

Jim. He didn't coom back till past 
eleven. Law, an’ I'd reckoned as how 
he was cured, but it was that hot 
yesterday, yer see. Oh dear, oh dear, 
I dunno what to do, I can’t stan’ it. 
We niver 'ad a word all thease months, 
an' last night when he caam in, he 
called me soomthin' awful, an' if I 
hadn’t humoured him i’ iverythin’ he’d 
ha' struck me." 

Every atom of energy seemed to 
leave Mrs. Tear as she spoke, and she 
sat there huddled up under the hedge, 
a picture of despair. Mrs. Bell’s face 
was white and grim as she looked 
down at her. 

“ I reckoned as the harvest 'ud be 
the end o’ it," was all she said. 

The children, awed at first by the 
women's grave faces, soon recovered 
their spirits, and placing the jug and 
basket under the hedge began to 
pinch each other until some ripe 
blackberries attracted their attention, 
and they scampered off after them. 
Then Mrs. Tear asked — 

“ Your maan— how about him ? " 

“ He ain’t broke out yit, but I’m 


66 


NO PLACE FOR 


fear’d o’ to-night. Ivery daay he’s 
been gittin’ mower irritable, an’ I 
know it’s just that he sees the oother 
men havin’ sups o’ beer an’ he can’t 
stan’ it. Then it’s so swelterin’ hot. 
Yisterday when I took him his dinner 
wi’ a drop o’ code tea he taakes the 
jug an’ teams it right out i’ the floor 
‘ Theer,’ he says, ‘I wean’t drink nowt 
if I can’t ha’ nothink no better nor 
that,’ he says, an’ theer he sits scarce 
eatin’ owt for want o’ a sup o’ sum- 
mat to wash it down wi’. I reckon 
now Jim’s broke out nothink ’ull keep 
him. Whativer ’ull Maister Cham- 
pion saay ? ” 

“ Maister Champion ain’t no hode 
on Jim. He’s gotten tired o* his 
hymn singin’. I niver did reckon as 
that ’ud ’tice him for long.” 

“ Five moonths Bell’s kep’ sober, an’ 
if I could on’y git him home to-night. 
Well, I reckon it’s not to be. You an’ 
I maay just look to wersens, Mrs. 
Tear. It wean’t be no harvest merry 
maakin’ for us, I reckon. My word ! 
you’re i’ luck to ha’ no bairns. It’s 
the fear as he’ll do one o’ them a mis- 


REPEN T A NCE. 67 

chief as bests me. Coom along, it 
ain’t no good stan’in’ here.” 

She called sharply to the children, 
and placed them one on each side of 
her. Mrs. Tear rose and came up 
into line, and the four began to pace 
the field, picking up the stray ears of 
corn as they went. At the end of the 
field Mrs. Tear paused and put her 
hand to her back ; the constant stoop- 
ing hurt her badly, but she never 
thought of stopping. 

“ The maister’s a real good un,” she 
remarked, “he ain’t like soom on ’em 
as sends the raake up an’ down fit to 
tear up all the stubble, let aloan git- 
tin’ up ivery grain o’ corn that’s left.” 

6 That he ain’t,” rejoined Mrs. Bell, 
“ see you here, that’s a sight o’ pieses 
for just one traapse up. Now, Liza, 
whativer ha’ you been doin’, break off 
the ear cloase up, yer doan’t want to 
fill yer bag wi’ straw, coom now.” 

Before starting again Mrs. Bell 
shaded her eyes with her hand and 
looked into the distance. Away to- 
wards Cowsthorpe she could see the 
field where Bell was working, and be- 


68 


NO PLACE FOR 


yond that the station. The Golden 
Cross was dangerously near and the 
day was growing hotter. She must 
be punctual with Bell’s dinner, per- 
haps he would not like to slink off be- 
fore her. 

“ Wheeriver is Maister Champion 
to-daay,” she said as they all started 
once more. “ He oughter be on the 
look out, why doan’t he coom out i’ 
the fields ? ” 

But the Reverend Harold Cham- 
pion was otherwise engaged. At that 
moment he was on the top of a ladder 
in Cowsthorpe Church fixing up a 
wreath which Beatrice had made. 
She stood at the foot of the ladder 
watching him and handing him the 
nails and string. 

The church was in process of deco- 
ration for the Harvest Festival on the 
morrow, and Mrs. Minton and Miss 
Hildred were hard at work in the 
chancel. 

“ I think,” whispered Miss Hildred 
over the altar rails, “ that it would be 
far better taste if we ladies were left 
to do the church by ourselves. It 


REPENTANCE. 69 

really makes one quite uncomfortable 
to see such — ” 

She glanced in the direction of the 
ladder. 

“ Dear me ! ” said Mrs. Minton anx- 
iously, “ don’t you think the ladder’s 
safe? Beatrice is holding it quite 
firmly ; and they are doing the arches 
sq very prettily.” 

“ I’m sure the Vicar would have 
sent his gardener — there was no need 
for Mr. Champion intruding himself.” 

A low laugh came to them up the 
aisle, and Miss Hildred looked round 
indignantly, 

“ Really this is too much,” she said. 
“The way those two go on is com- 
mon village gossip, but they might 
respect the church. Beatrice, one ex- 
cuses, she is such a child and has 
never had a mother’s care — but for 
him—” 

“ I wonder if there is really any- 
thing in it ; dear Beatrice — it would 
be a nice match, wouldn’t it? A 
young fellow of such promise is sure 
to get on.” 

“ I think every soul in the place is 


NO PLACE FOR 


70 

infatuated about the man ! I should 
never be surprised to hear there was 
madness in his family. His expres- 
sion which people think so fine, well, 
you watch him, see his face in repose, 
that’s very seldom I grant you, but 
when you do catch it, a more miser- 
able hang-dog look I have never 
seen. I must go and get some more 
green.” 

“ What are you going to do now ? ” 
Beatrice was saying as Miss Hildred 
passed. “ You’d better come back 
with me, I’ve got the pony outside. 
I’m going to stop on the way and 
try and persuade father to come home 
for lunch. He’s been in that last 
field all the morning.” 

Harold accepted, and Miss Hildred 
watched them drive away together in 
Beatrice’s little pony cart. “An en- 
tire lack of maidenly reserve,” she 
said to herself as she went back to 
the altar. 

But Beatrice was unconscious of 
adverse criticism. Probably she would 
have called “ maidenly reserve ” affec- 
tation, and only laughed good-hu- 


REPENTANCE. 


71 


moredly had she heard. For now, 
as day by day she grew more certain 
of Harold’s feelings towards her, her 
cup of happiness was full and she was 
ready to shower on those around her 
the surplus of her great content. She 
drove straight to the harvest field 
and through the open gate towards 
her father who came to meet them. 
While they talked Harold delighted 
his eyes with the scene before them. 
One of the great wagons was in 
process of being laden, moving every 
now and then up a line of stooks leav- 
ing only bare stubble behind. On the 
top Bell was standing receiving each 
bundle on his pitchfork as it was 
handed up from below, and deftly 
putting it in its place. The occasional 
shouting to the horses mingled pleas- 
antly with the creaking of the heavy 
wagon and the rattle of the harness. 
Presently, as Harold watched, a party 
of women came up the field carrying 
baskets. The men left off work and 
leaned on their forks w r hile their wives 
unpacked the dinners and chose shady 
places under the remaining stooks, 


NO PLACE FOR 


72 

Bell came down from the wagon 
and stood looking at the others, tak- 
ing no notice of his wife, who asked 
him more than once where he would 
sit. He fixed his eyes on Jim Tear 
who had gone up to the hedge for his 
coat, out of which he produced two 
bottles of beer. 

“ Mebbe you’d like a drop,” he said 
to Bell, “ yer can’t work all daay har- 
vest time wi’out it. It ain’t no ewse 
thinkin’ yet can. Folks can saay what 
they please, but let ’em coom an try 
doin’ the work dry, an’ see how they 
like it.” 

He glanced sulkily towards the spot 
just out of earshot, where Mr. Cham- 
pion and Mr. Foster were talking to- 
gether. 

Bell stared at him without answer- 
ing, watching him take the cork out 
and drink. Bell’s expression was al- 
most savage, and his wife put her 
hand timidly on his arm. He shook 
her off angrily. 

Jim Tear brought the bottle down 
again and laughed, holding if out to 
Bell. 


REPENTANCE. 


73 


“ Doan’t be a fool, John, ,, he said, 
“ taake what’s set before yer an’ be 
thaankful. Why, yer not doin’ half 
the work to-year as yer did last 
harvest, an’ it’s because yer’ve got 
nowt to put heart into yer. Are 
scar’d o’ what the parson yonder 
saay ? ” 

“ Hode yer noise, Jim Tear,” said 
Mrs. Bell coming between them, “ain’t 
it enew for yow to ha’ been roarin’ 
drunk last night wi’out interferin’ wi’ 
oother folks as has mower sense ? 
Yow be off, or I’ll tell yer a few bits o’ 
trewth about yoursen, I will. Afore 
Christmas you’ll ha’ been i’ Haxby 
lockup for bein’ disgraaceful drunk, so 
git on wi’ yer.” 

Her voice rose shrilly, and Jim, who 
was not anxious that Mr. Foster’s at- 
tention should be drawn to his last 
night’s debauch, took his two beer 
bottles and joined the other men. 

“Now then, John Bell,” continued 
his wife, “ I ain’t goin’ to be kep’ stan’in 
all daay for nothink, ’tain’t likely. 
Are yer goin’ to taake your victuals or 
aren’t yer? D’yer think I’ve nothink 


74 


NO PLACE FOR 


to do but to run a’ter you an' me busy 
gleanin’ and all ? Coom ower here, 
do now.” 

She led the way to the hedge under 
which they sat down, and handed 
him his dinner. Bell was gloomy and 
silent ; he ate what she put into his 
hands without remark, while she 
watched him anxiously, though she 
continued talking the whole time. 
When he had finished she offered 
him the jug of cold tea. He drank 
some and set it down. 

“ No mower,” he said, “ never a drop 
mower o’ that howery stuff — Jim's 
right, let Maister Champion coom an’ 
do the work an’ then see — I’d ha’ had 
a drop wi’ Jim if I hadn’t reckoned as 
it ’ud goa to me head, me not havin’ 
taasted it for so long, an’ the maister 
set o’ gettin’ this field in, but once 
done work, theer’ll be no reason agin’ 
it that I can see. Now doan’t gi’ me 
no mower o’ your toongue. It ain’t 
no good, I can’t stan’ it no longer. 
Hode your noise an’ mind your own 
business, an’ I’ll look a’ter mine.” 

For once Mrs. Bell had nothing to 


REPENTANCE. 


75 


reply His determined tone left her 
hopeless and she looked away to 
where Mr. Champion was standing 
feeling that even his help would be 
unavailing. Besides as her eyes rest- 
ed on Beatrice, she felt that Mr. Cham- 
pion was losing interest in them, and 
was busy with his own concerns. 

“ He's alius follerin’ her now," she 
muttered. 

“ Yis," Bell grunted, “ many's the 
time I’ve happened on 'em togither 
laately, an’ the waay he looks at her 
yer can tell what he’s a’ter. He doan’t 
goa about seein' folk as much as at 
first, an' his preachin’s gone off I 
reckon. It ain’t that stirring not like 
it was, that it ain't. Well it’s naature, 
he's gotten his courtin’ to think about 
now an' all." 

He rose and went back to his work, 
where Mr. Foster joined him after 
having refused to go back to lunch 
with Beatrice. 

“ You can take Champion instead," 
he had said. “ Mrs. Bell will be thank- 
ful to get rid of him for she’s glean- 
ing." 


76 


NO PLACE FOR 


All that hot afternoon while the men 
worked, Harold lay under the trees in 
the old farm garden and talked to 
Beatrice. Often there were long min- 
utes of silence, while words trembled 
/a his lips which yet remained un- 
spoken. A sense of honor he could 
xiot stifle held him back. Other words 
should come first, and these he dared 
not utter. He could not bring him- 
self to that supreme surrender to her 
mercy. 

When she left him to rejoin her 
father, he went home and standing by 
his open window, he set himself to 
solve the problem which held him 
silent in her presence. Was he bound 
to cast a shadow over her pure joy. by 
dragging to the fore a part of his own 
life that he had buried and was seek- 
ing to forget ? 

From these thoughts he was roused 
by the sound of children’s voices sing- 
ing. He went out into the lane. To- 
wards the gate the last wagon came 
lumbering along. On top of the great 
load of corn sat children waving their 
handkerchiefs and shouting : 


REPENTANCE. 


77 


“ Harvest in an’ harvest out, 

A great fat pig in a barley stowk, 

Hip, hip, hooraah ! 

I’ve slitten my shirt an’ torn my skin 
To git my maister’s harvest in, 

Hip, hip, hooraah ! ” 

Women and men followed behind, 
and last of all came Mr. Foster and 
Beatrice. A general excitement per- 
vaded every one and Harold fell im- 
mediately under its influence. He 
joined Beatrice and stood by her while 
the men began stacking. Presently 
Mr. Foster who had been giving direc- 
tions came up to them. 

“ You’d better not stay, Beatrice, I 
shall only be half an hour or so longer. 
Come and have supper with us, Cham- 
pion, I’m sure you’ll get nothing here 
to-night.” 

So Beatrice and Harold once more 
together went slowly up the lane. Mrs. 
Bell saw them go as she was engaged 
in pulling Liza and Jackie from under 
the big wagon. 

“ Yer great stewpids,” she said, “be 
off this minute to bed, it ’ud sarve yer 
right if the big wheels had gone ower 


NO PLACE FOR 


78 

yer. Now doan’t let me clap eyes o* 
yer again to-night, or I'll gi' yer what 
for ! Be off while I find father." 

She looked anxiously round, for Bell 
was nowhere to be seen. He had left 
the stacking a minute before, giving 
his fork to another man. Mrs. Bell 
looked all over the yard and in the 
barn. Then, a prey to a horrible anx- 
iety, she ran out into the lane and 
back in the direction of the field where 
he had been working. She knew that 
across that lay the nearest way to the 
Golden Cross, and she knew too that 
Bell always went to the Golden Cross 
if he meant hard drinking in prefer- 
ence to the Public House, nearer home. 
With sickening anxiety she strained 
her eyes to see. Yes, just entering the 
gate was a huge figure which could 
only be Bell's. 

She stopped to consider. To run 
after him would be worse than use- 
less, he was past her control ; and yet 
as she watched him a wild longing to 
prevent him took possession of her — 
a feeling that this evening would be 
decisive, that it was now or never. 


REPENTANCE. 


79 

With instant determination she turned 
and ran back, past the yard where 
every one was busy, and on up the 
lane towards Mr. Foster’s house. She 
must find Mr. Champion, he must fin- 
ish the work he had begun, he must 
go after Bell. If he could only get 
there in time. She staggered on 
blindly, almost falling, for the unusual 
pace was agony to her, and her breath 
came fitfully and with pain. At last 
she was obliged to pause with her 
hand on her heart, but as she did so 
she caught sight of Mr. Champion far 
up the lane. He was bending down 
towards Beatrice, who leaned against 
a stile. Mrs. Bell gave a hoarse cry 
and ran on again, but the two lovers 
were too absorbed to hear her, and as 
she struggled forward, she saw him 
stoop, pass one arm round the girl and 
draw her towards him. A feeling of 
ungovernable rage came over Mrs. 
Bell, and she shouted, “ Maister Cham- 
pion, Maister Champion.” Her shrill 
voice rose to a piercing cry. He 
should hear her ; what was he doing 
here while Bell was on the way to 


8o 


NO PLACE FOR 


ruin ? They started, her voice had 
reached them and they came down to- 
wards her. 

“What is it? what’s the matter?” 
Beatrice asked, but Mrs. Bell had no 
ears for her. She took Harold by the 
arm. 

“ Maister Champion, quick,” she 
gasped, “ goa you a’ter Bell, he’s gone 
to the Golden Cross, oh maake haaste, 
maake haaste, can’t yer ! If you run 
straight through yon gaate, an’ ower 
the fields yer may git theer afore he 
sets to. He means havin’ a reg’lar 
bout, an’ it’s on’y you as can git him 
off. Why did yer iver meddle wi’ him 
if yer aint goin’ to help him stick to 
it ? He’ll do soom one a mischief if 
yer let him drink to-night. Run, run, 
for God’s saake.” 

Roused by this passionate appeal 
from emotions of a different kind, 
Harold only collected himself slowdy. 

“ I’m afraid,” he began, “ I’ve lost 
any influence I had with him, Mrs. 
Bell. What can I do?” 

“ Doan’t stan’ theer thinkin’, run an’ 


REPENTANCE. 8 1 

fetch him back, mebbe he’ll coom wi’ 
yer.” 

“ Quick, Harold,” cried Beatrice, 
catching fire, “ run as fast as you can 
down the lane and over the fields, 
there’s a footpath all the way. Oh, 
go quick, you can stop him, I know 
you can stop him.” 

He had heard his name from her 
lips for the first time, and his heart 
beat quicker. She believed in him 
and told him to go, and with one 
parting glance at her he started. 

They watched him race down the 
lane at full speed, and then Beatrice 
caught Mrs. Bell’s hand, and pulled 
her up to the stile where they had 
been standing. Through the gap in 
the hedge they could see the footpath 
Harold would take, and both strained 
their eyes in the indistinct light. 
There he was, running not so fast 
now, but steadily, never pausing. 

Then Mrs. Bell sank on the step of 
the stile and covered her face with her 
apron, sobbing : 

“I reckon he’ll be too laate. If 
Bell’s taasted it, he’ll niver git hinj 


82 NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE . 


awaay. Oh, whativer shall we do ? 
Oh the poor bairns, an’ we so quiet 
thease last moonths.” 

Beatrice knelt by her, folding her 
strong arms round the quivering 
woman. 

“ Don't be afraid,” she whispered, 
“he will bring him back, I know he 
will bring him back.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Quite unconscious of the efforts 
made on his behalf, Bell plodded dog- 
gedly forward. The countryman’s 
pace is always slow, but Bell’s was 
even more so than usual. He was for 
one thing thoroughly tired out, and it 
was actual pain to him to drag one 
leg after another. Once he cursed 
himself for a fool for coming so far 
after his day’s work, but the next 
minute he was anticipating with keen 
pleasure the snug corner in the bar 
and the delightful effects of hot gin 
and water, a luxury he had been fool- 
ish to deny himself all these months. 
People might say what they liked, he 
argued, it was one of the few pleasures 
within the reach of a poor man, and 
once get used to it there was no doing 
without it. He thought of all the 
struggles he had had to pass the 
Golden Cross these last few months, 

(83) 


NO PLACE FOR 


84 

and all the hours of misery his ab- 
stinence had given him. “Such a 
sinkin’ i’ the in’ards,” he expressed it 
to himself. And now here he was 
going to begin again ! Mr. Champion 
had said he would soon cease to feel 
the want of it, but to-night he wanted 
it as badly, worse he thought than 
ever. It was no good, he could not 
go on like this. Mr. Champion did 
not know what it was, how could he ? 
Why to-night he felt he must get 
drink if he had to fight for it. “ Meb- 
be it is the devil inside me, as the par- 
son says,” he thought, “an’ the devil’s 
a sight stronger nor I am.” 

As he crossed the plank bridge over 
the drain which separated the last 
field from the road, a vision of him- 
self drunk one night in the previous 
winter flashed through his mind. He 
had rolled off the narrow plank, and 
he remembered the start the cold 
water had given him, and the jeers of 
the men who had pulled him out. 
For one minute he hesitated and 
looked at the Golden Cross over the 
road. After all that was a mere ac- 


REPENTANCE. 


85 


cident — he went on again. At the 
door stood Dr. Minton’s horse and 
cart, and before Bell could enter the 
doctor came out and jumped in. Bell’s 
hand went up automatically to his hat, 
though he had much rather not have 
been recognized at that minute. 

“ Hullo, Bell,” said the Doctor, “got 
the last load home ? ” 

“ Yis, sir.” 

“ That’s capital, only just in time, I 
think. You know the signs of change 
as well as any one. I expect you didn’t 
like the sunset.” 

“ I doubt it ’ull blow a bit.” 

“Blow and rain, too. Well I hope 
we shan’t have any sudden changes 
for the sake of the landlord in there. 
I’m afraid he’s very shaky,” he low- 
ered his voice and leaned over the side 
of the cart looking hard at the man 
before him. “Fact is,” he said, “we 
can’t do anything for a man who has 
always been a hard drinker f they get 
completely rotten, no other word for 
it, rotten, the least thing takes hold of 
them and kills them. Both the children 
well?” 


86 


NO PLACE FOR 


“ Yis, thaank yer, sir,” Bell shuffled 
his feet and looked down uneasily. 

The Doctor gathered up his reins. 
“Well, I must be off,” he said, and 
then “What brings you so far from 
home to-night ? I should have thought 
you’d have turned in early after such 
a day’s work.” 

“I’m just goin’ round i’ the yard to 
see a litter o’ pigs, for mebbe I shall 
ha’ one off Mrs. Martin when we kill 
wer own.” 

“Ah, well, good night,” said the 
Doctor as Bell slunk off round the 
house, and he turned to talk to an- 
other man who had come out of the bar. 

Bell stood in the yard in the shadow 
of an outhouse. The lie shamed him 
utterly, and he dreaded lest some one 
should come out of the back door and 
find him skulking there. It was five 
minutes before he heard the Doctor’s 
cart drive away, and then with an im- 
precation on all interference with his 
liberty, he went scowling into the bar. 
The house was disorganized owing to 
the landlord’s illness, and there was 
no one to serve him. Fuming at a 


REPENTANCE . 87 

further delay, he rapped angrily on 
the table. 

A dirty-looking maid appeared. 

“ Three o’ gin,” he demanded. 

“ Hot or code ? ” 

“ Hot, an’ maake haaste.” 

He watched her mix it with eager 
eyes. An excitement he did not 
attempt to control took possession of 
him. He looked round, the bar was 
empty, and there in the corner was 
the old seat which used to be his by 
right of custom. It was five months 
since he had begun to neglect it. His 
trembling hand closed tightly on the 
glass, as he turned and took a step 
towards the corner. 

Then the door was thrown open and 
swung to quickly behind Harold. 
Bell stood in the middle of the floor, 
the glass in his hand, staring at him 
with mingled rage and astonishment. 
Flushed and completely out of breath, 
Harold could not speak, but he strode 
forward and the two watched each 
other silently, eyes meeting eyes. 

“ What do yer want follerin’ me ?” 
Bell asked hoarsely. 


88 


NO PLACE FOR 


With an effort Harold held his pant- 
ing breath to speak, and only from the 
fire in his eyes could one have told his 
intense excitement. 

“ Give that glass to me,” he said 
quietly. 

“ I wean’t, an' I wean’t listen to any 
mower o’ your nonsense, Maister 
Champion, so just let me be. I tell 
’ee it ain't no good. I'm not goin’ 
wi’out a sup o’ summut no mower. 
Yer mean well, but it ain’t to be sup- 
posed as a maan ’ull stan’ the parson 
doggin’ him about like as if he were a 
thief. I doan’t want to ha’ no words 
wi’ you, so I tell yer yer’d best 
not interfere wi’ me to-night. What 
business is it o’ yourn, I’d like to 
know ? ” 

Harold did not answer him, but 
springing forward he grasped the 
wrist of the hand in which Bell held 
his glass. 

“ Give it to me.” 

“Fool! Git off wi’ yer, do yer 
want to maake me fight ? leave goa — 
theer — you’re slappin’ it. Git awaay, 
Maister Champion, do yer want me to 


REPENTANCE. 89 

do yer a mischief ? By God, I’ll knock 
yer silly if yer doan’t drop it.” 

“ I daresay you’ll hurt me, but you 
won’t touch this stuff.” 

“ Let goa, let goa, yer meddlesoom 
puppy,” shouted Bell. “ Here soom 
one, fetch the p’liceman ; what right 
ha’ you to assault me ? Hi theer ! ” 

The maid had fled at the first sign 
of a quarrel and the two men were 
left alone. At each effort Bell made 
to shake Harold off some of the gin 
and water splashed on the brick floor. 
Suddenly Bell, who was now furious 
with anger, fixed his free left hand on 
Harold’s throat. A head shorter and 
smaller in every limb, Harold was 
forced to retreat before his powerful 
antagonist. Step by step Bell shewed 
him back until he had pinned him tc 
the wall. Even then Harold used 
both hands and all his remaining 
strength to force back Bell’s fingers 
from the glass. 

“Damn yer, let goa, yer bloody 
fool, or I’ll knock your silly head 
again the wall. Git off wi’ yer. Ah!” 

The glass slipped from his grasp 


90 


NO PLACE FOR 


'and fell, breaking to pieces on the 
floor. Bell withdrew for an instant 
in surprise, and a faint “ Thank God ” 
escaped from Harold. 

“ Yer damned preachin’ hypocrite/' 
shouted Bell, “ look out for yersen, 
here smell o’ this,” he shook his fist 
in Harold’s face, and then seeing he 
did not move, he struck him in the 
chest. “ Coom on wi’ yer, let’s see 
which is the best maan, coom on wi’ 
yer. Why doan’t yer hit, d’yer want 
me to kick yer like a dog ? Are yer 
scar’d ? ” 

“ No, I’m not,” Harold answered 
steadily, though his head was swim- 
ming from the effects of Bell’s recent 
grip of his throat, “but I’m not going 
to fight here.- Come out, there’s a 
dying man overhead and the maid’s 
gone off to fetch some one. Come 
out into the fields where we shall be 
alone.” 

The quiet tone sobered Bell’s ex- 
citement, but he looked in scornful 
astonishment at the pale face and slim 
figure before him. 

“Come along,” continued Harold, 


REPENTANCE. 


91 


going to the door, and Bell followed. 
Harold led the way back over the 
field, towards Sheepbank. For five 
minutes both men walked in silence, 
then Harold stopped and turned to 
face the other. 

“ There is no one within hearing,” 
he said. “ What do you want to do ? ” 

“ It ain’t fair,” Bell burst out an- 
grily, “ noa, I doan’t reckon as I want 
to fight now, I could best yer ower 
soon. But how am I to be sewer as 
yer’ll not interfere wi’ me again ? 
Swear to let me aloan.” 

" I shall do nothing of the kind. I 
am bound to prevent you if I can. 
Besides it was not me who stopped 
you. Why look at the difference, feel 
your arm and mine. If* God had not 
been on my side, Bell, I could have 
done nothing. Thank Him that He 
has saved you, and let us both pray 
for strength.” 

“ Now look you here, Maister Cham- 
pion, I ain’t coom out here wi’ you to 
pray, but to coom to soom under- 
standing an’ I’m goin’ straight back 
for drink when I’ve sattled wi’ yer, so 


92 


NO PLACE FOR 


yer maay just maake up yer mind to 
that. I doan’t saay nowt about your 
interferin’, yer mean well — but yer 
doan’t know what a man suffers, yer 
doan’t. Nobody does who ain’t been 
through it. I tell yer this ’ere craavin’ 
is stronger than a maan, he can’t re- 
sist it, so now just gi’ me your word 
as yer’ll let me be, an’ we’ll part 
friends.” 

Anger had died out of Bell’s tone, 
leaving only dogged obstinacy, and 
Harold felt that all his efforts had 
been in vain. There was one more 
appeal that he might make, but the 
sacrifice of his own pride was so great 
that his whole nature shrank from it. 
While he stood there hesitating, the 
sudden thought that Beatrice’s life 
was henceforth bound up with his, 
made his breath catch as he realized 
too late what a coward he had been to 
involve her happiness in his own hope- 
less struggle. He leaned against the 
hedge and remained silent, till some 
movement on Bell’s part warned him 
that he must decide. Irrational as he 
felt it to be, he believed that not only 


REPENTANCE . 


93 


Bell’s fate but his own hung in the 
balance. Why not let the man go ? 
Had he not done enough, and if he 
mastered him this time surely the 
next would prove fatal ! After all 
Bell was perhaps right, the tempta- 
tion was overwhelming. 

How still the night was, how abso- 
lutely peaceful after that rush and con- 
flict in the bar. He listened and could 
hear nothing but the heavy breathing 
of the man near him. The moon had 
gone behind some clouds, and he could 
not see distinctly. Every atom of en- 
ergy seemed to have left him; he felt 
unaccountably dizzy and leaned heav- 
ily on the hedge for support. Still 
the question forced itself upon him, 
was he bound to try this last way from 
which he shrank ? 

“ Well, will yer promise? I’m not 
goin’ to stan’ here all night. I’m off 
back again.” 

“Bell, don’t leave me — pray, pray 
for help for us both. My God, I want 
it more than you do. You say I don’t 
understand. Don’t understand ? Why, 
man,” he put his hand on Bell’s arm, 


94 


NO PLACE FOR 


“ I’d have given anything for that 
spirit we spilt on the floor. No one 
knows, not a soul, and you mustn't 
tell, but if you don't believe me, come 
home and I’ll show you proof enough. 
John Bell, if you go back to-night, I 
shall go too, I can't fight any longer — 
if it's too strong for you, it’s too 
strong for me.” 

He leaned trembling on the power- 
ful arm he held, and Bell stared at 
him, catching a glimpse, as the moon 
came out for a moment, of a white 
face quivering with a great anxiety — 
for a moment only — for then Bell 
gripped him by the arm above the 
elbow, and, half 'supporting him, hur- 
ried him along the path in the direc- 
tion of Sheepbank. 

Thus they passed the two women 
who had been long waiting for their 
return, and who stood close together 
in the shadow of the great empty 
wagon. Mrs. Bell pulled Beatrice even 
farther into the blackness as her hus- 
band went by, and then both smoth- 
ered an exclamation of surprise. Not 
till the door had closed behind the 


REPENTANCE. 95 

two men did either woman move. 
Then coming forward they went to- 
wards the house filled with vague 
fears. The lamp was burning in Har- 
old’s room, and the blind was up, so 
that as they approached they could 
see in. 

Harold had thrown himself on a 
chair beside the table and sat there 
with his head buried in his arms. The 
attitude was one of hopeless despair, 
and through the open window there 
came to them the sound of deep, pant- 
ing sobs. Bell stood near him, his 
face full of pity, and even as they 
looked, he put his great, hard hand 
on Harold’s shoulder with the gentle- 
ness of a child, saying, 

“ Doan’t now, doan’t ; doan’t taake 
on like that, sir.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


It was late before Bell came into 
the kitchen, where his wife was impa- 
tiently waiting for him with not a lit- 
tle curiosity. He sat down by the ta- 
ble without a word, and she placed 
his supper before him. 

“ Fve been tryin’ to keep it warm/' 
she said, “but I reckon it must be 
ower done fit to taake ivery bit o’ 
goodness out o’ it.” 

But Bell made no complaint. Paus- 
ing after a minute or two, he said, 

“ Ain't ver a sup o’ owt yer could 
taake in to him ? ” 

“ Maister Champion? I dunno, Pm 
sewer, mebbe a drop o’ warm milk, or 
a few broth out o’ the pot. I ain’t a 
great sight o’ milk i’ the house.” 

“ Let him ha’ the milk, mebbe he’ll 
drink that,” returned Bell. 

He went on with his supper while 
she warmed the milk and took it to 
(96) 


NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. 97 

Harold. When she came back, Bell 
had drawn his chair to the fire and 
was staring into it. All the time she 
was washing up and putting the 
kitchen straight for the night, she 
was longing to ask him questions ; 
and it was only -with great difficulty 
that she refrained. Presently she be- 
came aware that he was following her 
about with his eyes. 

“ How many years since we married, 
Hannah ? ” 

“ Twelve, thirteen coom next Laady 
Daay.” 

“ Straange an’ pretty yer looked i’ 
that theer lilac gown, yer did — I mind 
ode uncle Jaacob saayin’, ‘John/ he 
says, ‘ yer’ve wedded the prettiest lass 
i’ the marsh, yer mawn taake care on 
her/ he says, poor ode gentleman. 
Nigh on thirteen years, is it?” 

“ Liza ’ull be nothink like I was, I 
reckon.” 

il Noa, Liza doan’t feature you, she’s 
mower like the Bells, she is.” 

“Well, good looks doan’t last long 
nor yit good tempers, leastwaays not 
often ; such a lot o’ worritin’ an’ 


98 NO PLACE FOR 

scrattin* to maake ends meet. Theer 
I’ve done for to-night.” 

She came and stood by the fire. 
Bell got up slowly. 

“ I reckon any one could tell as yer’d 
been handsome,” he said contempla- 
tively, “though hardlins what yer 
were. Law, wasn’t I proud the first 
night as we got into wer little cottage 
togither. My word ! we had a sight 
o’ kissin’ an huggin’ ower the fire.” 

And suddenly bending forward he 
put one arm round her and drew her 
to him, kissing her several times on 
both cheeks. The old wrinkled face 
flushed a deep red, and she wriggled 
awkwardly till she had freed herself 
from him, then both laughed and 
looked at each other. 

“Yer great stewpid,” said the wom- 
an, “ coom on to bed wi’ yer, what do 
yer want wi’ such like at your time o’ 
life ? See, yer’ve pulled my back hair 
down.” 

She bent down to light the tallow 
dip by the last glowing embers of the 
fire, and then they went up to bed to- 


REPENTANCE. 


99 

gether, his arm once more round her 
waist. 

And long after they were asleep, 
Harold, to whom they owed so much, 
sat on in his armchair filled with de- 
spondency. The fact that some one 
now knew the awful temptation with 
which he had stood face to face for 
months seemed to add tenfold to its 
strength. Bell would be perpetually 
watching him, perhaps dogging his 
footsteps. His one safeguard had 
been that every one believed in him. 
He had felt his own good influence in 
the place and it had given him 
strength. When the old Vicar with 
touching humility had thanked God 
publicly in church for having sent a 
man to help them, who understood so 
thoroughly the needs of the place, 
Harold had believed he had a Divine 
mission, and fired with enthusiasm he 
had begun once more to trust himself. 
Now, by the mere confession of a 
temptation common to himself and 
the man he had rescued, he felt once 
more plunged to the level of an ordi- 


IOO 


NO PLACE FOR 


nary being. He was tortured by the 
idea that his strength was failing. 

And Beatrice — why had he ever al- 
lowed himself to dream of her, and to 
be carried away to a confession of his 
love? For what had he to offer? 
Only the ruins of a life of self-indul- 
gence, only the certainty of involving 
her in a fresh fall. For this terrible 
madness to which he was a victim 
would surely overtake him again ; 
struggle as he might, as he had done 
during these past months, he was only 
postponing the evil day. It came 
upon him to-night in full conviction, 
and he trembled, fear taking posses- 
sion of him till drops of cold sweat 
stood on his forehead. ,God only 
could help him and he tried to pray. 
But the old words and trite forms he 
had used so often failed to bring com- 
fort and hope, and insensibly he fell 
to reviewing his past life filled with 
self-pity and self-excuse. 

He saw himself as a pale-faced 
London child, listless and heavy, sur- 
rounded with luxury, already growing 
dependent on outside excitements to 


REPENTANCE. ioi 

rouse him from the apathy of a weakly 
constitution. Then as a schoolboy, 
with his sensitive emotional nature, 
plunged in the rough discipline of the 
society of other boys of ruder, healthier 
physique. Then came a time when 
religious convictions began to work 
in him, supplying the excitement for 
which he was always craving. He 
remembered the alternate terror and 
exalted enthusiasm that his unformed 
mind had experienced under the in- 
fluence of an earnest minister with a 
strongly Calvinistic turn of mind. At 
college the views he had thus acquired 
had been modified, though never com- 
pletely eradicated, and it was to the 
English Church that he finally at- 
tached himself. 

It was during the years at college 
that he had become dependent on 
alcohol, turning to it to steady his 
nerves during any anxiety, or after 
any period of nervous exhaustion. 
But it was only after his ordination 
with all its attendant emotions that 
the first signal outbreak had come. 
Luckily for him it had taken place in 


102 


NO PLACE FOR 


his own home, and no one but those 
in the house knew from what he had 
been suffering. But he shuddered as 
he remembered the bitter humiliation 
of his convalescence, the distrust of 
the eyes that watched him, and then 
the greatness of his resolve for the 
future, his ideal of a lifetime’s re- 
pentence. He had not counted the 
cost. A London East-end curacy, its 
hardships and excitements drove him 
after an ineffectual battle with himself 
to seek strength from his old enemy. 
At first he believed himself the master, 
but gradually the insidious habit tight- 
ened its grip on him, till after two 
years he ceased to wrestle with it. 
This time he foresaw what would 
happen, and to save appearances he 
resigned his curacy. 

There followed another time of 
blind horror, leaving him plunged in 
despair. God had deserted him ; he 
was predestined to failure ; what was 
the use of fighting ? It was only ter- 
ror of his late illness that kept him 
from abandoning himself to what he 
had begun to believe was fate. But 


REPENTANCE. 


103 


constant care and devotion brought 
back a little of his shattered strength, 
and with it renewed hope. Then came 
the offer of the Lincolnshire curacy. 
His late rector could not speak too 
highly of his enthusiasm and devo- 
tion, and believing as he did that it 
had resulted in a nervous break- 
down, he thought a country curacy 
was the thing for which Harold was 
exactly fitted. 

As Harold reviewed his life it 
seemed to him that circumstance had 
followed circumstance, regardless of 
his efforts, and beyond the reach of 
his control. His life was so unlike 
what he had wished for himself that 
he fell to wondering if he had really 
had much share in making it what 
it was. The arguments of his old 
teacher recurred painfully to his mind. 
What if after all he was not one of 
God’s elect ? He had long since come 
to consider such thoughts the out- 
come of an immoral doctrine, and 
had earnestly upheld the opposite 
school. All the old discussions of his 
college days came surging back on 


104 N0 PLACE for repentance. 

him. What if after all the Freedom 
of the Will was but a delusion of the 
human brain? Impossible — life would 
be a constant terror, and yet — it was 
strange, this feeling of impotent cap- 
tivity — was he free to act as his better 
nature directed him ? 

Over-wrought by all the varied ex- 
citements of the day, he sat still hour 
after hour thinking feverishly, and 
awaking to a feeling of dread when 
the dawn at last roused him, and he 
knew that day with all its tempta- 
tions was at hand. 


CHAPTER IX. 


The evening was hot and sultry, and 
every one was prophesying that the 
weather would break up with a thun- 
derstorm. Inside the church the 
atmosphere was close, and stifling. 
To the neglect of the morning service 
when the Vicar had preached to 
almost empty seats, all Cowsthorpe 
had come to keep its harvest festival 
at night. For the Reverend Harold 
Champion was to preach, and on such 
an occasion the congregation hoped 
that he would give them a more than 
usually stirring sermon. Some ru- 
mor too had spread of his heroic 
effort on the previous night, and cu- 
riosity was aroused as to whether he 
would show any external marks of 
the encounter. There was a feeling 
of slight disappointment when it was 
perceived that his appearance was nor- 
mal — he only looked a little paler, and 

(105) 


106 


NO PLACE FOR 


his voice seemed to tremble slightly 
as he read the lessons. 

Many eyes were directed to Bell, 
who, however, appeared serenely un- 
conscious. His attention was fully 
occupied by his attempts to find Jack- 
ie’s places for him, nudging him 
sharply when he showed a tendency 
to drop off to sleep. Liza who was 
under her mother’s charge was appar- 
ently behaving in the most exemplary 
manner, only there was a suspicious 
bulge in one cheek, and presently a 
penetrating aroma came from her 
neighborhood. 

Miss Hildred, whose devotions were 
somewhat easily disturbed, looked 
round and sniffed angrily. 

“ Peppermint ! ” she said decidedly 
under cover of an Amen. 

“ Peppermint ? ” repeated Mrs. Min- 
ton, following the direction of Miss 
Hildred’s gaze, and Mrs. Bell, seeing 
that Liza was the object of their at- 
tention, promptly boxed one of her 
ears. Liza opened her mouth in sur- 
prise, and the offending bull’s eye 
dropped out and rolled under Jack- 


REPENTANCE. 107 

ie’s footstool. Immediately Jackie’s 
prayer-book fell to the floor, and in 
stooping to pick it up, he managed to 
secure the treasure and convey it to 
his own mouth. Liza whimpered, but 
it was past recovery, and her only 
comfort lay in the fact that she had 
already consumed the larger part. 

It was with a sense of true thanks- 
giving that the congregation rose to 
join in the harvest hymn. That year 
there was real cause for rejoicing, for 
the rich harvest would bring cheaper 
food and more money to spend in 
coals during the winter. But to old 
Mrs. Bell, as she stood there with 
tears in her eyes, these considerations 
were lost in a deeper thankfulness and 
joy. At the conclusion of the hymn 
when they all sat down she felt for 
Bell’s hand. For many years the end 
of harvest had been for him a time of 
harsh temper and heavy drinking, but 
to-day as he prepared to listen to the 
sermon, he gathered little Jackie to 
him, letting the child sleep, while his 
other hand was in his wife’s. 

Beatrice too had her own thoughts, 


NO PLACE FOR 


108 

her own reasons for thanksgiving. 
Harold would doubtless return with 
them after church and would speak 
to her father, and then her secret joy 
would be made known. Yet as she 
recalled the strange scene of the pre- 
vious evening, from which she had 
hurried away mystified and anxious, 
she could not conquer a sense of fore- 
boding. She had watched Harold 
through the service and knew that he 
was not himself, that he was suffering. 
With the insight of love she observed 
more than others — he was not attend- 
ing, his thoughts wandered. Once 
she felt that his eyes were fixed on 
her, and their intense sadness puzzled 
and frightened her. She missed his 
voice in the singing, and it was with 
a strange misgiving that she saw him 
stand in the pulpit. 

The rustling of the congregation as 
they settled themselves down ceased, 
and perfect stillness reigned in the 
church. All eyes were on Harold, 
waiting. Outside it had grown dusk 
for, when the sun set, dark clouds 
gathered, making the daylight shorter. 


REPENTANCE. 


109 


On/y the candles in the pulpit cast a 
pale glow on Harold’s face. He 
opened his mouth to speak and 
paused, looking, not at the rows of 
expectant faces but over their heads 
into the dark arch of the tower at the 
west end. So rapt was his expres- 
sion that all held their breath, and 
not a few turned following his gaze, 
almost expecting to see some strange, 
unearthly vision. The cawing of a 
few rooks in the elms outside was the 
only sound which broke the silence 
until a long, low, ominous rumble 
came from the direction of the distant 
wolds. The storm was coming — Har- 
old closed the open Bible before him 
and spoke, 

“ For he found no place for repent- 
ance, though he sought it carefully 
with tears.” 

The words fell like a cold blast 
upon the congregation brought there 
to rejoice, and for the first few min- 
utes he did not gain their attention. 
His voice sounded thin and far off as 
the darkness gathered and heavy rain 
beat upon the windows. He told 


IIO 


NO PLACE FOR 


them the story of Esau, drawing him 
as the sensuous man given to self-in- 
dulgence, to pampering his appetites, 
until they gained dominion over him, 
and he was willing to part with God’s 
most precious gift, his birthright, for 
a mess of pottage. 

“ Brethren, what is the deeper sig- 
nificance of this story ? It is written 
plainly in our own lives. We too sell 
our birthright to feed our appetites, 
to indulge our animal propensities. 
We too sacrifice God’s most precious 
gift to us, our power of choice, by re- 
peated surrenders to the domination 
of our ruling passions. Let me make 
my meaning plainer. What is this 
birthright belonging to each man and 
each woman on God’s earth ? It is 
the great fact that we are free, that 
though we are placed amid manifold 
temptations and though perils of all 
kinds await us, yet it is always possi- 
ble for us to choose the right and to 
walk in the path of well doing. It is 
Jehovah who is Almighty, and great 
though may be the power of evil, yet 
God is on our side, and we can choose 


REPENTANCE. 


Ill 


the good. Brethren, if it were not for 
this great and glorious truth, how 
could we endure our lives on earth at 
all ? If some evil power or some 
blind fate outside ourselves could 
force us into actions which our better 
natures detest and abhor, would not 
life become a nightmare, and we, 
blown hither and thither at the mercy 
of our lower selves, should have no 
choice but to curse God and die.” 

His voice had risen and the tone 
was one of vehement insistence, mak- 
ing his hearers uneasy. He put both 
hands on the pulpit and leaning for- 
ward, continued in a lower tone, 

“If this is not true, if we are not 
free but are compelled to do wrong 
whether we will or no, then God be- 
comes a Devil, Wrong rules the World, 
and we are damned, here in this life.” 

The Vicar looked up a little anx- 
iously. These were bold words hardly 
to be understood by country folk 
barely yet wrested from the meshes of 
dissent. Disdain was plainly written 
on Miss Hildred’s features — this style 
of preaching was so uncultured — but 


1 12 


NO PLACE FOR 


the congregation was listening, and 
drawing himself up, Harold continued, 
“ But you know that this is not so, 
deep down in your hearts you know 
that you are free — and yet there may 
be many among you about to sell their 
birthright, to sacrifice their freedom 
for some secret sin. Oh, my brethren, 
to God is the honor and glory of 
your freedom, but in making you free, 
He could not but make you liable to 
fall, free to part with your freedom, 
for like Esau, you can sell your birth- 
right. This is the awful thought that 
should be always before you, this it is 
which should bring you to your knees 
imploring God for help while there is 
yet time. God will not always strive 
with man — once, twice you may re- 
cover after yielding to temptation, but 
each time the struggle will be harder, 
each failure will leave you with less 
strength to resist. And then sud- 
denly, you will awake to the fact that 
you are no longer your own master, 
you are no longer free. Oh, if I could 
but make you see and feel as I feel the 
horror of this position. 


REPENTANCE, 


H3 

“ The man who has sold his birth- 
right stands alone, isolated even 
among crowds of his fellow-beings. 
He can expect no help or sympathy 
from God or man — he has nothing to 
look forward to in this world but a life 
of impotent slavery to his ruling pas- 
sion ; and, beyond the grave — he puts 
that thought from him lest it should 
drive him mad. Perhaps the crown- 
ing point of his misery comes when he 
looks back on his past life, somewhere 
along the line of his failures it was 
possible to have repented, to have re- 
formed, he cannot tell exactly when it 
became too late. Shuddering he sees 
what the past might have afforded, 
the innocent joys, the opportunities of 
high and noble effort which he has 
passed by, and, with an insight born 
of his despair, he sees “ how much he 
might have made of this fair world.” 
God grant that it is not too late with 
you. God help you to remember 
Esau, to resist each sin as it comes 
with all your strength, aye, let it be 
with the strength of despair, for to- 
morrow it may be too late, one more 


1 14 NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. 

failure and you may find that you 
have sold your birthright, that your 
power of resistance has left you. Then 
indeed you are past prayer and past 
hope, for it may be said of you as it 
was said of Esau ‘ He found no place 
for repentance, though he sought it 
carefully with tears.’ ” 

His voice broke on the last words 
and there was a solemn hush. He 
seemed to be trying to regain his self- 
possession, when, suddenly across the 
aisles now nearly dark there came a 
flash of light and a peal of thunder 
overhead. It resounded in the vaulted 
roof, rattling the glass in the old win- 
dows, and when it died away Harold 
gave the customary conclusion faintly. 
With an effort he descended the pulpit 
and went at once to the vestry, where 
a few minutes later the Vicar found 
him lying unconscious on the stone 
floor. 


CHAPTER X. 


The congregation dispersed slowly 
in ignorance of what was happening 
in the vestry. A little group of ladies 
waited in the porch until the heavy 
rain should cease. 

“Well,” said Miss Hildred, “ after 
this I should think the Vicar will be 
obliged to act. I never expected to 
sit and listen to such blasphemy even 
from him. He's no business to call 
himself a churchman." 

She got no reply from Mrs. Minton, 
to whom % apparently the remark was 
addressed, for Mrs. Minton was anx- 
iously watching Beatrice. The girl 
stood almost outside the porch, letting 
the rain drive into her pale face with- 
out seeming to notice it. 

“It's not only unorthodox but un- 
dignified," continued Miss Hildred in 
the tone of one pronouncing the last 
word on the subject, and she peered 

(115) 


1 16 NO PLACE FOR 

out into the churchyard. Something 
evidently arrested her attention, for 
she forgot her best bonnet and let 
some seconds go by before she drew 
back her head. 

“ There's Dr. Minton just gone in at 
the Vestry door." she exclaimed. “ I 
saw one of the choir boys run after 
him and another has been sent off to 
the Vicarage. Some one's ill. I ex- 
pect it's Mr. Champion. He looked 
ghastly, didn’t he ? and I’m sure he 
could only just get down from the 
pulpit." 

Beatrice turned and looked up the 
aisle, longing for her father to come. 
She could not go to Harold, and that 
added to her misery. Her heart was 
full and sore, and it was hard to keep 
up a semblance of indifference before 
the others. 

After a few minutes the Vicar came 
down the aisle. 

“ Beatrice," he said, “ your father 
wants you to go across to the Vicar- 
age and wait there for him. Mr. Cham- 
pion is not very well, he turned faint, 
but he'll be better soon. Your father 


REPENTANCE . 


ii 7 

will drive him home and then come 
back for you. It’s not raining so 
much now, I think you can manage 
to run over.” 

He took the girl's umbrella from 
her and went outside to open it. Bea- 
trice followed, and her eyes sought 
his appealingly as she took it back. 
For one moment his hand touched 
her shoulder gently, as he said — 

“ It’s all right, my dear, he’s only a 
little overdone.” 

He heard something like a sob es- 
cape the girl as she ran away into the 
darkness, and he went back with a 
sigh to say a few words to the other 
ladies before returning to the Vestry. 

There Dr. Minton was still bending 
over Harold. 

“ That’s better,” he said, “now let’s 
try and get a little more of this down; 
hold his head up a bit, Foster, now.” 

He poured a little brandy into Har- 
old’s mouth, and after a few more min- 
utes his consciousness gradually re- 
turned, and Mr. Foster and the doctor 
helped him into a chair. He sat look- 
ing from one to the other dazed and 


1 1 8 NO PLACE FOR 

wondering, until turning his eyes to 
the table he started and trembled. 

The doctor poured out a little more 
brandy. 

“ Here, drink this, half the other lot 
went down your neck, I fancy — drink 
it down.” 

Harold held out his hand eagerly 
and took the glass. He was trem- 
bling so much that the doctor 
thought it would fall, and put his 
own hand to guide it, holding it to 
Harold’s mouth while he drank. 

“ What makes the man look so 
frightened,” he thought to himself, 
“ fear, abject fear in every line of his 
face.” 

Then thinking it better to leave him 
to himself, the three men stood to- 
gether and talked in undertones. 
Glancing at his patient from time to 
time the Doctor saw that he was be- 
ginning to look about him and even 
to listen to what they were saying. 
Presently he looked at his watch and 
got up, steadying himself on the back 
of his chair. Going to help him the 
Doctor said, 


REPENTANCE. 


IX 9 

“Well, that’s right, do you feel bet- 
ter now ? ” 

“Yes, thank you. I suppose I 
fainted.” 

“Yes, you did, and I tell you what 
it is, you’ve been going too fast. Too 
little food, too little sleep, and too 
much excitement. You must take it 
easy for a bit. Have you ever gone 
off like that before ? ” 

“ Once when I was a boy at school. 
They said it was nearly half an hour 
before I came to.” 

“Well, it was over ten minutes this 
time and that’s quite long enough. 
Foster is going to drive you home, 
and I’ll come in early to-morrow and 
look you up. By-the-bye, can you 
make any one hear from your bed- 
room if you feel ill in the night?” 

“ Oh, yes, you can hear all over that 
tiny cottage.” 

“Very well. Foster, you’ll make 
him go straight to bed, and tell Mrs. 
Bell to look after him. I think you’ll 
be all right now, but it’s as well to be 
careful. Have you any stimulant by 
you ? No, I expect not. Well, you’d 


120 


NO PLACE FOR 


better take this to-night, and to-moi- 
row I’ll give you a prescription which 
you can keep by you in case of emer- 
gency.” 

A few minutes later Mr. Foster was 
driving Harold towards home. The 
fresh air cooled by the rain revived 
him, and by the time they reached 
Sheepbank he was feeling almost him- 
self again. Mr. Foster called Bell to 
hold the horse while he gave Harold 
an arm upstairs. He insisted on see- 
ing him in bed before he went, and 
left him to give Mrs. Bell her instruc- 
tions. When he came back to say 
good-bye, he stood for a few minutes 
chatting, and then said, 

“ I’ve told Mrs. Bell to bring you 
some food, and mind you do your 
best to eat it. I don’t wonder at your 
being a bit overdone, you put such an 
amount of life into your sermon. It’s 
a lesson we should all do well to learn, 
terrible and true, as far at any rate as 
this world’s concerned. Well, I must 
go — but first let me put this table with 
the brandy within your reach.” 

As he held out his hand, he was 


REPENTANCE, 


121 


struck by the same look of fear on 
Harold's face which had puzzled the 
Doctor. 

“ You don't mind being left — you're 
quite sure ! I’ll stay with you if you 
feel the least nervous.” 

“ Oh, no, certainly not. I’m quite 
right again now. I wouldn’t keep 
you for worlds. I think I shall soon 
be asleep.” 

So after a few more hearty words 
Harold was left alone. He turned on 
his side and lay looking at the table 
by his bed. His face hardened, a dan- 
gerous light shone in his eyes, the 
taste of brandy was still in his mouth, 
and he laughed unpleasantly, for he 
knew that he was alone in an unequal 
fight, and the misery of his defeat was 
past. 


CHAPTER XI. 


“ Hi ! Mrs. Bell/’ the Doctor shout- 
ed, for he had knocked twice at the 
kitchen door without receiving any 
answer. He stamped, impatiently, on 
the step, for it was pouring with rain, 
and some big drops from his hat had 
begun to trickle down his neck. 
“ Where on earth can they all be ? ” 
he thought, “Champion at any rate 
must be in.” 

He went round to the front door 
and tried it, but it was locked. The 
blind in the parlor was still down 
and he said to himself, 

“ I suppose he's not up yet ; well, 
that’s the best thing he could do, per- 
haps he’s asleep.” 

He paused, uncertain what to do, 
when his attention was attracted by a 
high-pitched voice in the barn. He 
went off at once towards it, and as he 
drew near he could hear the regular 
(122) 


NO PL A CE FOR REPENTANCE. \ 2 3 

swish, swish, of a chaff-cutting ma- 
chine which formed a sort of accom- 
paniment to Mrs. Bell’s shrill tones. 

“ I goes upstairs o’ tip toe wi’ a drop 
o’ hot tea an’ a little sup o’ milk I’d 
saaved o’ purpose, I did, an’ I knocks 
but theer wasn’t no answer, an’ ‘meb- 
be he’s asleap,’ I says, so I taakes the 
tea down again an’ sets it o’ the hob 
to keep warm, an’ then I fetches a few 
sticks for I reckoned I’d put a bit o’ 
fire i’ the parlour, as ’ud do no harm 
this here daamp daay an’ ’ud mebbe 
look coomfortable when he coom 
down, for he do seam as he wants a 
bit o’ shepherdin’ up, do Maister 
Champion, so I gits the paaper and 
matches an’ a sap o’ laamp hile for to 
maake her goa, not havin’ been kindled 
sin’ the fore end an’ me reckonin’ as 
the chimney ’ull mebbe smoke, an’ — 

“ Marnin’, sir,” said Bell, who from 
his position could see the Doctor as 
he came into the barn. Mrs. Bell 
turned round. 

“ Good marnin’, Doctor, well to be 
sewer ! ” 

The Doctor nodded, and for a min- 


NO PLACE FOR 


124 

ute watched Bell in silence as he went 
on with his work, swaying his body 
slightly as he threw his weight on the 
handle of the machine, which seemed 
to revolve under him without effort. 

“Well, how’s Mr. Champion this 
morning ? ” 

“ Dunno, I’m sewer, sir. I’d just 
coom out to tell Bell, we reckoned as 
he was sleapin’ laate, but he’s gone.” 

“ Gone ? ” 

“ Yis, afore we was up an’ all, an’ 
left thease here on the parlour taable, 
mebbe yer could maake mower on 
’em, I ain’t much of a schollard.” 

She handed him two envelopes. 

“ That’s for the Vicar, this is to 
you.” 

“Dear Mrs. Bell, — Will you let 
Jackie take this note to the Vicar ? I 
am going away for a few days’ rest. 
Expect me back on Saturday for sup- 
per. Yours, — Harold Champion.” 

“ Yis,” said Mrs. Bell with a tinge of 
triumph in her voice, “ that’s just what 
I reckoned it said, ‘ back o’ Satur- 
daay,’ wasn’t it, Bell’ But I can’t see 


REPENTA NCE. 


125 


no sense i’ runnin’ off wi’out a sup o’ 
owt to warm his inside, an’ teamin’ an’ 
silin’ fit to drown o’ body.” 

The Doctor looked at Bell, but he 
never paused in his work. The chaff 
poured down, and the swish, swish 
continued with perfect regularity. 
The Doctor saw that there was noth- 
ing to be obtained from him, and he 
knew by experience that his wife 
would tell all she knew without wait- 
ing to be asked, so he took his leave. 

Directly afterwards the supply of 
hay ran out, and Bell paused. 

“ See you here,” he said to his wife, 
“ you git this filled up, an’ wait here 
forme. I must go see to that hurse as 
has gotten one leg foundered up. I’ll 
be back i’ a minute.” 

He left the barn, and looking round 
guiltily to see if he was out of her 
sight he went towards the house as 
quickly as he could. The back door 
was unlocked, and he went straight 
upstairs to Harold’s room. Opening 
the door softly he stole in. The bed 
lay all disordered, and by its side the 
table with an empty bottle and glass. 


126 


NO PLACE FOR 


Nodding his head as if he were not 
surprised, he lifted the glass and 
smelt it. 

“ I reckon mebbe Hannah ’ull forgit 
all about this ’ere if she doan’t see it,” 
he muttered. He washed the glass 
with elaborate care, and returned it to 
the cupboard in the kitchen. Then 
taking the empty bottle, he was about 
to throw it on a heap of rubbish be- 
hind the pig-stye when he paused. 
“ Naay, I wean’t break it,” he said sor- 
rowfully, “ I’ll hang it up i’ the barn, 
it ’ull mind me o’ the consequences o’ 
sin. God forgive us. Law, I wish I 
knew wheer he’d gone, but it doan’t 
matter, it ain’t the loikes o’ me as 
could help him. I reckon he’ll ha’ 
taaken train afore this.” 

Meanwhile the Doctor drove back 
to Cowsthorpe, taking with him the 
note to the Vicar, and the news of 
Harold’s abrupt departure. The story 
spread with the usual speed, and the 
next five days were spent in discuss- 
ing it. JMany and varied were the 
conjectures put forward, agreeing in 
nothing but the certainty that there 


REPENTANCE. 12 7 

must be a mysterious reason for that 
early flight. 

To Beatrice the excited gossip that 
buzzed about her was little short of 
actual pain. She could hardly bear 
to sit by and listen. Ardently she 
longed for some one to whom she 
could speak openly, but the shadow 
of mystery which hung over Harold 
made the girl shrink into herself. A 
great fear possessed her leaving to her 
pride but one miserable satisfaction — 
unless Harold came back strong and 
true, no one should ever know what 
he had said to her in the lane. Some- 
times she wondered if she had any- 
thing to do with his abrupt departure, 
but she could not believe it, for she 
remembered now with something akin 
to shame how little cause she had 
given him lately to doubt her affec- 
tion. His apparent cruelty made her 
anger rise against him, but this mood 
would pass leaving her longing for 
him all the more passionately because 
she felt the need of some explanation 
of his strangeness. The memory of 
his face as she had last seen him in 


128 


NO PLACE FOR 


the pulpit haunted her, and she shud- 
dered again, as she had shuddered at 
the time, at the picture of despair he 
had drawn. 

Each day as it passed left her more 
hopeless, for each day she watched for 
the postman, and he came and went, 
leaving her nothing but disappoint- 
ment. She avoided speech with every- 
one and stayed much at home. Her 
father left her to herself, saying noth- 
ing even if he observed her pale looks 
and forced cheerfulness. She never 
knew how much or how little he 
guessed, but from the bottom of her 
heart she was grateful for his silence, 
valuing it above all sympathy that 
could have been expressed. She be- 
lieved that Saturday would end the 
time of waiting ; but, when Saturday 
came, she rose from her bed in the 
early dawn conscious of no relief, only 
of fear. Towards afternoon restless 
misery drove her to seek the relief of 
a long walk. In that bare, sparsely 
inhabited country no one need seek 
long for solitude, but if one place 
promised it with even more security 


REPENTANCE. 


129 


than another, it was the desolate sea 
coast, and towards this Beatrice set 
forth, feeling that it would be in sym- 
pathy with her loneliness. 

When she neared the coast, she 
took a road running on the land-side 
of the huge sandbanks in order to 
avoid the outskirts of a dreary, half- 
built watering-place, now nearly de- 
serted for the winter months. But 
when she had passed a mile or so be- 
yond fear of parades or belated don- 
key boys, she crossed a bare stretch of 
waste land, and climbing up the bank, 
sinking deeply into the silver sand at 
every step, she stood panting on the 
top. The wind whistled in the tall 
blue grass beneath her feet, catching 
up the light sand and whirling it in all 
directions. Below her, but now some 
way off, the sea retreated lazily. On 
one hand a bend in the yellow sand- 
banks hid the watering-place from 
view, while southwards she could see 
the miles of level sand and mud which 
form the Wash, bordered in the dim 
distance by the line of the Norfolk 
coast. 


130 


NO PLACE FOR 


There was not a human creature to 
be seen, there was nothing, when she 
had run down on the shore side and 
was walking on southwards, to mark 
one mile of sand from another. Ev- 
ery now and then she crossed a break- 
water, every now and then some 
spars and planks thrown up during 
a recent storm. Some dry wood un- 
der shelter of a breakwater tempted 
her to rest and she sat down. Then 
the dreariness of the scene took com- 
plete possession of her. The dull 
gray sky, the vast expanse of 
bare sand, the wind whistling and 
shrieking through the grass on the 
banks above her, all combined to 
deepen the sense of inevitable sadness 
which held her, sitting motionless, 
watching the sleepy sea until it had 
become little more than a restless line 
in the distance. Tears rose to her 
eyes, and the effort to restrain them 
spurred her to action and she stood 
up, but for a minute the whole of the 
gray desolation before her was blotted 
out by a mist still more desolate. 
The thought was, “Just a week ago 


REPENTANCE. 


131 

to-day and what a difference ! ” The 
delicious dream of happiness flashed 
back on her and faded, leaving her 
life empty. Why she must suffer, how 
Harold was suffering, remained a 
mystery, but she no longer tortured 
herself to solve it. Resolutely she set 
her face towards home, and as she 
trudged on mile after mile, she did 
not think, physical fatigue had made 
her mind a blank. 

About half an hour from home she 
overtook and passed Bell who was sit- 
ting on the edge of an empty cart al- 
lowing the great, heavy horse to take 
his own pace towards the stable. Bell 
touched his hat and she nodded, but 
contrary to her usual habit she did 
not stop and speak to him, but hurry- 
ing on soon left the lumbering cart be- 
hind. Turning a sharp corner she 
faced a mile of perfectly straight road, 
with a drain on either side and here 
and there a few stunted thorns or pol- 
lard willows. Not a soul in sight, she 
could not even see a cottage in the 
distance. She was not given to nerv- 
ous fears, but half involuntarily she 


132 


NO PLACE FOR 


paused feeling glad to hear the sound 
of Bell’s heavy cart as it came slowly 
along. But what made her listen 
more attentively was another sound. 
A voice, a man’s voice, singing. It 
was growing dusk, but there was still 
light enough to see some way, yet she 
could see no one. But the voice was 
singing not very far off, and now the 
words reached her, though thick and 
indistinct — 

“ Ring the bells of heaven, 

There is joy to-day.” 

A laugh. “Well, must be gettin’ 
home, s’late I think I feel much bet- 
ter, better than I’ve been for a long 
time,” then from behind a large heap 
of stones where he must have been ly- 
ing, a man rose and staggered forward. 
His legs bent under him and in a min- 
ute he had reeled to the opposite side 
of the road where he stood unsteadily. 

Beatrice’s first feeling was one of 
annoyance. It was evident the man 
was drunk and she was doubtful if she 
could pass him unobserved. How- 
ever, it was late and she was anxious 


REPENTANCE. 


133 

to be home. She watched his un- 
steady movements, feeling that she 
could easily distance him if he offered 
to molest her. As she approached 
keeping on the other side of the road 
and never taking her eyes off him, she 
pulled up short, arrested by an idea 
which made her heart beat wildly. 
There was something strangely famil- 
iar about the figure. He had paused 
too and seemed to be listening, then 
he broke out into a few lines of an old 
college song and tried to run forward. 
His foot caught on a stone and he 
tripped, falling heavily on his face ; his 
hat rolled off, and he lay there crying 
with the half-frightened, half-angry 
tone of a child who has been hurt. 

In a second Beatrice stood over 
him. Nearer and nearer behind 
them came the rumble of Bell’s cart 
The girl’s breast heaved : she was 
possessed by one idea and in her im- 
patience to save him from exposure 
she found words. 

“ Get up, Mr. Champion, get up and 
stop crying. Bell’s just behind and 
will hear you.” 


134 


NO PLACE FOR 


Surprise quieted him and he man- 
aged to get to his feet. 

“ Beatrice, is that you ? I’m sho 
pleased to see you,” and he came to- 
wards her. “ I’m cornin’ to see your 
father s’evening. Let’s walk home 
together.” 

Beatrice slipped past him, shrinking 
away as he approached unsteadily. 
She was trembling with shame for 
him and for herself, but the cart was 
almost upon them and she made one 
more effort. 

Harold had walked on without his 
hat. She picked it up and followed 
him. He took it with effusive thanks, 
and tried to take her arm. Master- 
ing herself with a great effort, she re- 
pulsed him. 

“ Mr. Champion,” she said, stand- 
ing a little way from him, “ you’ve 
been drinking, and you’re not your- 
self. Can you stand still and not 
move or speak while Bell passes ? 
He’s in that cart. Oh ! don’t disgrace 
yourself before him.” 

But the silly smile with which he 
looked at her, his bloodshot eyes and 
flushed face scratched and bleeding 


REPENTANCE. 


135 


from his fall, his untidy clothes cov- 
ered with mud, all combined to de- 
stroy her last hope. She turned away 
from him with a stifled sob. 

He followed expostulating, plead- 
ing with her, and denying that he was 
the worse for liquor in language which 
appalled her from his lips. 

Then she stood still — Bell was now 
in sight, and she knew that she could 
not save him. White to the lips she 
faced him, and caught and held his 
shifting glance. Something there 
was in her looks which penetrated 
even to his dull brain. Something so 
piteous and appealing that he quailed 
before her, and turning away began to 
cry miserably. She never moved a 
muscle of her face, now grown hard 
and stony. Slowly the cart reached 
them, and at a gesture from her, Bell 
stopped looking down wonderingly at 
the two. She stepped forward, reach- 
ing up to Bell so that he only caught 
the words: 

“He’s — drunk — can you get him 
home without any one knowing ? Say 
he's had another fainting fit." 


1 36 NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. 

The rough face looked down at hers 
blankly for what seemed a full minute, 
then at Harold who had ceased crying 
and was staring up stupidly. Then a 
look came into Bell's face which 
brought the tears to Beatrice's eyes, 
a look of such great tenderness and 
pity that even in her own trouble she 
found time to marvel at the man. 
Slowly he swung his huge frame down 
from the cart, and taking Harold by 
the arm he forced him, resisting feebly, 
to get in. Then he shouted to the 
horse, and without a word or a look 
back they were on their way. 

Beatrice stood in the middle of 
the road watching. She saw Har- 
old slip helplessly until he lay full 
length in the bottom of the cart. 
Then Bell took some pieces of old 
sacking on which he had been sit- 
ting and threw them lightly over the 
prostrate figure. 

So jolting and jogging along pain- 
fully in an empty muck cart, the Rev- 
erend Harold Champion returned to 
Sheepbank. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Outside the rain was falling with 
dull persistence, and the station 
master had* lighted a fire in his inner 
office, and round this his friends were 
gathered. Jim Tear had just con- 
firmed the rumor which had at first 
been received with astonishment and 
unbelief. But now the blacksmith’s 
loud protestations of faith in the 
young curate were silenced, and Low- 
ery was indulging in the exquisite 
pleasure of “ I told you so.” 

“ Stuff an’ nonsense,” said Dicky 
angrily, “ we know you hadn’t niver a 
good opinion of him, but yer niver 
guessed this, so hode yer noise.” 

“It cooms o’ such a sight o’ fine 
preachin’,” said Jim Tear with a tone 
of triumph. “ But Maister Lowery 
niver was taaken wi’ that. It was you 
Dicky as was most set o’ him.” 

.“ Richard, Richard,” said Kitty, 

(i37) 


NO PLACE FOR 


138 

with a twinkle, “it 'ull be a long time 
afore we taake your opinion again. 
Now Maister Lowery advised us to 
follow the ode ’un.” 

“I woonder what Maister Nugent 
thinks o’ it, poor ode gentlemaan," 
said Lowery. “ I reckon he'll taake it 
to heart a deal." 

“An' I woonder what 'ull becoom o' 
the young maan,” said Dicky, “ they 
oughtn't to *et him coom deceivin' 
folks." 

“ A maan can be a good maan and 
yet drink," Lowery answered deci- 
sively. “ My father was one. A bet- 
ter, gentler creature niver breathed, 
yit he was drunk reg’lar as the church 
clock ivery Saturday night. I mind 
how my moother ewst to coom to the 
public for him, if it got so laate she 
reckoned as he’d be past walkin'. A 
fine great woman was my moother. 
She'd git our ode donkey i’ the cart 
an' off she’d goa. An’ very like she’d 
find father fast asleap i' the bar. 
She’d ketch him up i' her arms, for he 
was but a little maan, an' she’d carry 
him out an' fling him i' the cart bot- 


REPENTANCE . 


139 


tom an' off she'd coom home. Many's 
the time I’ve stood at the gaate an' 
watched her coomin’, poor ode laady ! 
An' once git him back she'd skelp up 
the cart an’ slither the poor ode maan 
out o' the muck heap. ‘ Theer,' she'd 
saay, ‘ that's a fit bed for a drunken 
sot, yow lig theer,' she'd saay, an’ 
yer wean't taake no paayment while 
marnin’." 

Some one opened the outer door 
and disturbed the station master's 
reminiscences. It was the Doctor, and 
Lowery went to his little window to 
give him a ticket. 

“ Third to London." 

“Bad daay for a journey, sir," said 
Lowery. 

“The ticket is not for myself," the 
Doctor answered shortly, and he went 
out into the rain. 

Lowery prepared to follow for the 
London train was nearly due. Just 
then the Vicar's shut carriage drove 
up and the Vicar got out and talked 
to the Doctor. 

“ Woonder they doan't step inside," 
said Lowery, “ Maister Nugent 'ull 


NO PLACE FOR 


140 

ketch his death. Law how it teams 
an’ siles.” 

“ My word ! ” exclaimed Jim peering 
out, “ that's Maister Champion they’ve 
left i’ the carriage.” 

“ Lowery,” called Mr. Nugent, “ will 
you send some one to see after this 
luggage ? ” 

Lowery went out himself and the 
other men watched from the window 
in silence. The train came in and 
Harold Champion walked up the plat- 
form as if in a dream, his white face 
perfectly expressionless. The Doctor 
and the Vicar followed. The old man 
took his hand and tried to speak but 
his voice broke and no words came. 
The Doctor hurried Harold into a 
carriage and closed the door retreat- 
ing on pretence of looking after the 
luggage. There stood the old Vicar 
trying to find words till the engine 
whistled and the train moved slowly 
away. Tnere he stood blinded by 
tears until the Doctor came back and 
taking him by the arm walked with 
him down the platform, past the row 
of silent men who had come out of 


REPENTANCE. 


141 

the station master’s room to see Har- 
old go. 

Lowery came forward and opened 
the carriage door touching his hat re- 
spectfully. The two old friends got 
in and were driven away. 

“ Poor ode gentleman,” said Low- 
ery, “ he’s that tender-hearted.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


It was Sunday morning one breezy 
day in the April of the following 
year. Bell stood in front of his cot- 
tage leaning against the wall and 
basking in the strong sunshine. His 
short clay pipe was between his lips 
and he was meditating. Presently a 
little ash fell on his trousers and he 
hastened to brush it off. He was in 
his Sunday best, and his embossed 
velvet waistcoat, the surviving relic of 
his wedding day, contrasted oddly 
with his shirt sleeves, for his black 
coat hung, out of a regard to econ- 
omy, behind the kitchen door. 

In the kitchen, Mrs. Bell was stand- 
ing over the fire performing the im- 
portant duty of “ gittin’ a bit o’ hot 
meat ” ready for the Sunday dinner. 
When she thought she could be spared 
for a minute she came out into the 
open doorway. 

(142) 


NO PLACE FOR REPEN T A NCE. 143 

“ Ain’t yer goin’ to church ?” she 
asked. 

“ I doubt not. Are you a-goin’ ? ” 

“ Naay, I’ve gotten the dinner to 
see to.” 

Bell took his pipe out of his mouth 
and looked at it. It was empty. 

“Maayblins Til coom in an’ read 
yer a chapter out o’ the Book, an’ that 
wi’ ode Dicky’s meatin’ to-night ’ull 
sarve us to-daay, I reckon.” 

He came into the kitchen, and 
fetching the great illustrated Bible 
from its place on the round table in 
the parlor, he sat down and began 
to turn the leaves. Meanwhile his 
wife talked. 

“Mrs. Nugent were in o’ Tuesdaay, 
an’ she says, ‘You an’ your husband 
ain’t been so reg’lar at church 
laately, Mrs. Bell,’ she says. ‘Noa,’ I 
says, ‘we ain’t, you’re right theer,’ I 
says. ‘An’ how is it,’ she says. 
‘ Dunno,’ I says, ‘it hardlins seams 
the saam thing now,’ I says. An’ then 
she talks a deal ’bout neglectin’ the 
means o’ graace an’ the house o’ God, 
real fine she talked, she did, till I 


144 


NO PLACE FOR 


says, 1 well/ I says, ‘ yer must talk to 
Bell, mebbe he’ll think summut o’ 
what yer saay/ I says.” 

“ It may be wrong,” mused Bell, “ I 
dunno I’m sewer, but I can’t ower set 
it. I can’t abear to goa, an’ that’s the 
trewth. As soon as iver I get setten’ 
i’ me seat, it all cooms ower me just as 
if it were on’y yisterdaay, an’ I can’t 
seam to listen to owt, on’y keeps 
saayin’ to mysen, ‘ Poor young maan, 
poor young maan, I woonder wheer- 
iver yer are, an’ what’s happenin’ to 
yer.’” 

He leaned his elbows on the table 
and sat gazing out of the window. A 
saucepan boiled over and required 
Mrs. Bell’s attention ; when the hiss- 
ing had ceased Bell continued — 

“ It ’ull be a year to-daay sin’ he 
first preached i’ Cowsthorpe church.” 

“ Deary me, how time does pass.” 

“What beats me is why we niver 
hear tell o’ him. I want to know if 
any o’ thease here folks ’as iver tried 
to help him — to git him started fair 
again. 

“ I reckon as he’s very near forgot- 


REPENTANCE. 


145 


ten i’ Cowsthorpe for all the talk it 
maade at the time, folks seam to ha’ 
settled down again woonderful, though 
they do saay as it were a great trouble 
to Maister Nugent, as he took on 
about it soomthink fearful.” 

“ Maayblins it was worse for Mais- 
ter Champion. Law, to see his face 
i’ the Moonday when he sent for me 
up i’ the chaamber an’ maade me tell 
him how we’d happened on him. I 
didn’t want to tell him, but he kep’ 
on askin’ till I was forced. I doubt 
he didn’t remember much, an’ when 
he says, ‘Did any one but you see me, 
Bell?’ I couldn’t speak for shaame. 
1 Please tell me,’ he says. ‘ One 
oother,’ I says, so low I woondered if 
he’d hear me, but he did, an’ looks at 
me fit to maake a maan cry out wi* 
the pain o’t. His mouth was open an’ 
it seamed as if his toongue was ower 
dry to speak, but at last he says, ‘ An’ 
she wa-s ? ’ he says. ‘ Miss Beetrice,’ 
I says, lookin’ awaay, for I couldn’t 
abear to see his faace, it was that 
white he might ha’ been laid out. ‘ I 
remember,’ he says, as though he were 


NO PLACE FOR 


146 

talkin’ to hisself, an’ then I looks 
again an’ theer he was starin’ right 
afore him, an’ I turns an’ cooms down 
here.” 

“Yis,” said Mrs. Bell, taking up the 
oft-told tale, “yis, an’ I mind how 
mad you was wi’ Dr. Minton an’ Mais- 
ter Nugent when they caam an’ talked 
to him. We heard ’em givin’ it him 
fine through the door an’ he niver an- 
swerin’ ’em not a word. We niver could 
maake out who tode on him, but how- 
iver afore the weak end, ivery soul i* 
the place was chatterin’ about it. Miss 
Hildred said she’d guessed it all along. 
Law, sich a parle as it maade. Yer 
see he oughter ha’ been i’ church o’ 
the Sundaay an’ he were lyin’ fast 
asleap all daay. I alwaays reckon’d as 
he confessed to Maister Nugent all 
about it, for the ode gentleman was a 
deal softer to him than the Doctor. 
Then Jim Tear ’ud seen him coomin’ 
out o’ that theer public house again 
the coast. They reckoned he’d been 
i’ Loondon all the weak an coom 
home wi’ one’ o’ them theer cheap sea- 
side tickets.” 


REPENTANCE. 


14 7 

“ He tode me as he felt it a coomin’ 
on, an’ went awaay to try an’ git it 
ower, but the worst o’ it is that a 
maan doan’t know when he’s drunk, 
an’ he caam back ower soon. But 
they sent him awaay ower quick, he 
were hardlins fit for the journey. It 
were on the Tuesdaay as Maister Nu- 
gent fetched him awaay i’ his car- 
riage.” 

“ Yis, an’ we’d all his things to pack 
an’ send a’ter him to Loondon.” 

Bell continued his sad stare through 
the window. His wife looked sharply 
at him, she knew he saw nothing, and 
she was not surprised when presently 
a large tear fell on the open Bible. 

“ Ha’ you heard about Jim Tear?” 
she asked to change the subject. 

“ On’y that they’ve sent him to jail 
for a moonth. Jim’s like the rest, it’s 
ta’en hode on him ower fast. It ain’t 
no ewse sendin’ him to jail, he’ll just 
ha’ time to git mad for it, an’ I’ll waa- 
ger he’ll be drunk the first Saturdaay 
he’s out again.” 

“ I reckon he was real scar’d this 
time howiver. It was along o’ that 


NO PLACE FOR 


148 

as the perliceman lit o' him, an’ he 
gives the perliceman a cut o’ the head 
wi’ his raake. They’d been puttin’ 
great heaps o’ chalk i’ the laane ready 
to mend it, an’ Jim cooms out o’ the 
public, an’ sees thease here great white 
things afore him, an’ reckons as he’s 
happened on a tut, an’ sets to work to 
scream an’ holler fit to raise the dead, 
an’ taakes the bobby for the ode gen- 
tleman hisself. Poor Mrs.Tear, it’s bad 
for her, I reckon. Now, then, are yer 
goin’ to read a piese ?” ’ 

She sat down opposite Bell, wiping 
her hands on her apron. He turned 
slowly to her. 

“ Do yer iver reckon,” he asked, “ as 
if it hadn’t been for Maister Cham- 
pion I might ha’ been i’ the saam boat 
wi’ Jim Tear? It’s just along o’ him 
that I’m here, an’ he’s a disgraaced 
maan. I scarce like to ask wheer he 
is, an’ I doan’t beleave any o’ ’em 
could tell me if I did.” 

Then, without waiting for an an- 
swer, he bent over the book and be- 
gan to read, pointing with one finger. 
He had found the story of the Cruci- 


REPENTANCE. 


149 


fixion, the 15th chapter of St. Mark, 
and slowly and with many stumbles 
he read it through. When he came 
to the verse, “ Likewise also the chief 
priests mocking said among them- 
selves with the scribes, He saved oth- 
ers, himself he cannot save.” He 
paused to think, murmuring to him- 
self, “ Mebbe they were i’ the right o' 
it, mebbe it was ower trew,” and so 
continued to the end. Then he rose 
abruptly and went out, calling back 
over his shoulder that he was going 
to the home close. Mrs. Bell knew 
that there was a beast there with a 
bad foot, and guessed that this was 
what took him there. But she was 
mistaken ; his real purpose was to 
try and find Beatrice. She, too, had 
loved the poor black sheep, and Bell 
was possessed of a great desire to 
hear news of him, or at any rate to 
speak of him to a sympathetic listener 
and so ease his mind. 

During all the months that had 
passed since the trouble came, he had 
never spoken more than a mere greet- 
ing to Beatrice, and yet he had 


150 


NO PLACE FOR 


watched her closely and knew as 
well as possible where she would be 
most likely to be at each hour of the 
day. He had seen Mr. Foster go by 
to church without her ; he knew that 
the day would bring back memories 
to her which would make her crave 
for solitude. At the bottom of the 
home close was a little copse, which 
at this time of year was always car- 
peted with primroses — among them 
he might find Beatrice. He was not 
disappointed ; as he crossed the field 
he saw her move among the trees and 
disappear, but he was hardly prepared 
for what followed. As he approached 
hoping to attract her attention, he saw 
that she had thrown herself down 
among the flowers and was crying 
quietly. Here where she believed 
herself free from interruption she had 
given way to bitter memories, letting 
them come unchecked until they over- 
whelmed her. This once, and this 
once only, was any one to penetrate 
below the surface of Beatrice's re- 
serve, or know how much or how lit- 
tle the girl felt beneath her habitual 


REPENTANCE . 


151 

cheerfulness. There were many who 
guessed and wondered, others who 
tortured her with leading questions, 
some few who showed the true sym- 
pathy of silence, fewer still who 
learned how great had been the sor- 
row from the girl’s deepened tender- 
ness, but there was only one of her fel- 
low-beings who ever spoke with her 
about it. 

A slight noise roused her and she 
looked up to see Bell leaning over the 
stile, his eyes fixed on her with the 
same look of pity in them she had 
seen once before. 

“Doan’t taake on, miss,” he began 
gently. “ It ain’t for the loikes o’ me 
to talk to yer, but I reckon as you 
and me were the on’y ones as knew 
the best o’ Maister Champion. He 
wer a good maan, that he were, spite 
o’ the drink.” 

She had given a start of surprise 
when she first saw him and hastily 
dried her eyes, but as he spoke she 
rose to her feet and came near him. 
For the first time in all those months 
she felt that she was listening to one 


152 


NO PLACE FOR 


who would not judge hardly, and 
she felt too that between them there 
would be none of that false shame, 
which made her misery so much 
greater if Harold’s name were men- 
tioned by one of her own class. 

Bell continued simply. 

“O’ course Hannah an’ me knew as 
yer were keepin’ coompany, an’ we 
often ewsed to reckon as he’d maake 
yer a good mattler, such a nice quiet 
maan as he seamed, but yer see, miss, 
it were not to be, an’ maayblins it’s 
all for the best. When the drink’s 
got hode on a maan, I reckon he’s 
best single. But oh, it’s such a pity, 
such a pity, an’ he so kind an’ all.” 

The thorn hedge was bursting with 
young life, and Beatrice broke off a 
twig and stood there pulling it to 
pieces, her lips quivering, her head 
bent. 

Bell’s eyes rested on her filled with 
longing. 

“ But your ower young, missy, to let 
this trouble best yer, ower young an’ 
ower braave an’ all. Many’s the time 
I’ve seen yer smilin’ an’ talkin’ so 


REPEN TA NCE. 


153 


pretty to the Maister, an’ I’ve thought 
to mysen, 6 eh, but ’er heart’s real 
heavy,’ but yer right, yer ain’t goin’ 
to let on about the pain an’ it ’ull 
not last, doan’t yer be scar’d, it ’ull 
not lastalwaays. An’yoor ode father, 
he’s so proud an’ pleased when you’re 
wi’ him, he thinks a deal on yer I 
reckon, you see you’re all he has to 
look to i’ his ode aage. Law, Miss 
Beetrice, yer mustn’t mind me talkin’ 
to yer, I can mind the Sundaay as 
you was christened, I can. I had yer 
i’ me arms once when yer was a 
baaby.” 

“ Did you ? ” she asked to encourage 
him to go on, for while he talked 
she could bear to think of her hidden 
sorrow, so naturally he spoke of her 
grief. 

“ Yis, that I did. I’ll tell yer how 
’twas. Your moother had ta’en a nurse- 
girl out o’ Haxby as I was sweat on 
as a young feller, an’ on Sundaays I 
ewst to watch for her coomin’ out, 
an’ law, you was such a pretty baaby, 
I got clear silly about you an’ all, an’ 
one daay I got her to let me carry 


iS4 


NO PLACE FOP 


yer. Law, I was pleased. Then she 
left your Ma, and married one o’ the 
grooms at Squire Thornton’s, an’ I 
was fit to goa craazed, I was. D’yer 
mind last harvest, Miss ? Well, yer’d 
hear talk o’ Maister Champion’s 
fetchin’ me out o’ the public. It was 
trew, which is mower nor folks talk 
is as a rule, but I should ha’ gone 
back that night as sewer as sewer, if 
it hadn’t been for what he tode me. 
Miss Beetrice, I knew from that night 
as he were a lost maan. I sat wi’ 
him in the parlour till nigh marnin’, 
an’ he tode me all his life — how it had 
crep’ upon him till now he reckoned it 
was ower laate to mend.” 

And then in his own language, Bell 
gave her the history of Harold’s life, 
which had sunk with all its details 
deep into his memory. And Beatrice 
listened, hearing more than she had 
ever done before, the answers to all 
the sad questions that had been tor- 
menting her. Lastly, Bell spoke of 
the man’s grief and shame, and Bea- 
trice leaned on the stile, hiding her 
face from him. Then for a time both 


REPENTANCE. 155 

were silent. Two thrushes were an- 
swering one another in the trees over- 
head, and in the strong sunshine the 
faint scent of the primroses came to 
them from all around. Bell’s dreamy 
eyes were fixed on the line of yellow 
sandbanks in the distance when he 
spoke again. 

“What beats me is what’s bein’ 
done to help him, does any one see 
a’ter him ? ” 

“ I believe Mr. Nugent did all he 
could. Of course he cannot get an- 
other curacy, at any rate for a long, 
long time, but he is working with 
the Church Army in the London 
slums.” 

Bell shook his head, he had no faith 
in London or the Church Army. 

“An’ yet,” he said, “ I reckon as 
that maan has mebbe done as much 
good i’ Cowsthorpe as Maister Nugent 
wi’ all his upright livin’. I reckon I 
oughter thaank Maister Champion, an’ 
I do thaank him, an’ theer’s oothers as 
has cause to do the saam. Maister Nu- 
gent thinks a deal about the bad ex- 
ample an’ the scandal, but it’s them 


1 56 NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. 

as knows all about it as can help 
©others.” 

“ Do you think he will ever get 
over it himself ?” Beatrice said hardly 
above her breath. 

Bell turned his eyes slowly on the 
girl’s face, and watched the rosy 
color steal over it. Then he an- 
swered — 

“ Noa, I doubt not. I reckon he 
ain’t gotten the strength.” 

She sighed and murmured “What 
a wasted life.” 

“ I dunno as yer ought to saay that, 
leastwaays not altogither. Things is 
maazin’ strange i’ this life, as yer 
maay saay. I was readin’ i’ the Book 
this marnin’, an’ we know what’s writ- 
ten theer is good. Leastways I shall 
alwaays saay o’ Maister Champion an’ 
all, “ He saaved oothers, himself he 
cannot saave.” 


THE END. 
















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